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THE 


OLD ADAM. 

A NOVEL. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


PZ3 

.5g.7<s,0 


Copyright, 1888, by J. B. Lippincott Company. 


LIPPINCOTT'S 

]y[ONTHLY jy[AGAZINE. 

MAY, 18 8 8. 


THE OLD ADAM. 


CHAPTER I. 

CIRCE’S SUITORS. 

I T was a little Renaissance salon^ or rather reception-room. Cupids 
with exaggerated legs danced along the frieze, pelting each other 
with roses. The ceiling was a mass of florid and elaborate stucco- 
work, which enclosed an open space wherein Apollo disported himself 
wdth the Muses. The walls were hung with rich faded tapestries, repre- 
senting shepherds and she})herd esses, in powdered wigs and in all sorts 
of delightfully frivolous attitudes. There was a quantity of superb 
Oriental draperies, heavy and luxurious, about the windows and doors, 
which, from an artistic point of view, were a little out of tune with 
the walls and the ceiling. But it is inconvenient, at times, to be in 
harmony with your walls, when they are as exacting as those of the 
Palazzo Barberini. 

Two men were standing in this exquisite salon, each staring with a 
blank and bored look at the dancing Cupids and turning liis back 
resolutely on the other. The one was a young man of about twenty- 
five, slender of growth and undeniably handsome. He was as blond 
as a canary-bird, and as daintily made. His fine pale-yellow hair 
was parted in the middle, and as it were evaporated in a kind of fluffy 
cloud about his ears. When he walked, it waved to the rhythm of his 
step. He had a moustache too, of a little deeper yellow than his hair, 
and a fresh, rather girlish complexion. His face expressed gentleness 
and delicacy of sentiment. His features, though not remarkable in 
themselves, showed that he had been tenderly reared. Their neutrality 
was, however, relieved by a pair of large, blue, introspective eyes with a 
warm and luminous depth in them. They were mild, like the per- 
sonality which they illustrated, but they were unusual, ardent, full of 
charming possibilities. In his attire the young man revealed an eye 
for effect which also departed slightly from the conventional standard. 

676 


576 


THE OLD ADAM. 


The wide-brimmed soft hat which he held crumpled up in his hand, the 
extravagant knot of his scarlet neck-tie, his black velvet jacket, and 
light trousers, considerably wider than fashion prescribed, could only 
be permissible in an artist, to whom Custom grants, in dress as in 
morals, a limited exemption from her authority. 

The other occupant of the room was a broad-backed, burly-looking 
man, well up in the forties, with a bald head, silky brown beard, and 
a florid complexion. You saw at once that he was an Englishman. 
For nature produces nowhere outside of the British Isles such robust 
physical manhood, such ruddy masculine necks, and such bad manners. 
Sir Percy Armitage — for that was the British gentleman’s name — had 
not been two minutes in the room before he had managed, without 
opening his mouth, to give the young American the measure of his 
contempt for him ; and the latter wondered, in a general way, what 
he had done to arouse the displeasure of the burly gentleman in the 
loose-fitting Tweed suit. But just as he was puzzling his brain with 
this unprofitable query, the door to the adjoining room was opened, 
and a French chambermaid entered, and remarked, with the most de- 
lightful courtesy, that Mademoiselle would be pleased to see him in a 
few minutes. The Englishman was obviously also interested in this 
announcement, for he turned abruptly around and gazed first at the 
chambermaid and then at his watch. He then seated himself, with un- 
mistakable signs of impatience, in an easy-chair which creaked under 
his weight, and began to beat his leg with his walking-stick. He got 
up twice to leave, but reconsidered his intention and sat down again. 
Even the American could not, at the end of fifteen minutes, forbear to 
look at his watch and run his hand nervously through his hair. He 
heard in the next room a rich, clear voice singing a Venetian barcarolle 
with a difficult accompaniment which was rendered with precision and 
skill. But it struck him that there was a lack of sentiment in the 
voice, in spite of its superb purity. It was the voice of a sweet but 
unaroused nature. He could not doubt that it was the voice of Miss 
Constance Douglas. But who was this Miss Constance Douglas, who 
made British baronets, not to speak of American artists, cool their 
heels by the half-hour in her anteroom while she was sitting singing 
leisurely at her piano ? She was, to be sure, closely related to a former 
President of the United States, and had no end of public men in her 
family. But, like all her relatives, she had found herself on the wrong 
side in the war, and had, like thousands of her countrywomen, staked 
her all on the result. She was no longer an heiress now who could 
afibrd to snap her fingers in the face of the world, but had managed 
to save a trifle from the general wreck, — just enough to support 
gentility, by a good deal of underground economy, in an historic 
Roman palazzo. It was scarcely her beauty alone, or the distinction 
of her family, which gave her the prestige which she enjoyed in the 
Eternal City. There were other women as beautiful and of a far more 
august lineage who had made abortive attempts to form salons in the 
old French sense; while about this stranger the salon formed itself 
without apparent effort on her part. The political and religious feuds 
which divide Italian society now, as they did in the days of the Mon- 


THE OLD ADAM. 


577 


tagues and Capulets, presented no difficulties to her. A Montague 
bowed with grave politeness to a Capulet, if her eyes rested upon 
them, and the Capulet returned the bow with elaborate ceremony. 
Am* and Buzurri^ rubbed shoulders without visible inconvenience, and 
diplomats accredited to the Vatican talked amicably with diplomats 
accredited to the Quirinal, about Zola or the figurantes of the Opera. 
All discordant notes melted into temporary harmony in her presence ; 
under the charm of her voice all the wild beasts which prowl about 
in the heart of man went to sleep, drawing their claws back within 
their velvet paws. No one pretended to understand the arts by which 
Constance Douglas accomplished this miracle, though there was a 
general unanimity among the ladies, outside of her immediate circle, 
that they were black arts. However that may have been (for colors 
are, after all, mere individual impressions ), a simpler explanation 
suggests itself. No one could look at her without having his whole 
vision filled. There was no room for other thoughts or impressions, 
either friendly or hostile, when she was present. But there, the door 
is opened, the tawny portUre is drawn aside. You may judge for 
yourself. It is she. 

Though Sir Percy and the young American had waited for her for 
thirty-five minutes, her coming was unexpected. She came into the 
room like a soft radiance, and in the twinkling of an eye the world 
was changed. They had both forgotten that they had been angry, and 
if anybody had told them they would have refused to believe it. She 
extended her hand to Sir Percy with unaffected cordiality, asked for 
his health, when he had come to Rome, etc. ; then turned wdth the 
same gracious friendliness, in which there was yet a shadow of reserve, 
toward the younger man, and, motioning him to a seat, addressed to 
him some questions regarding his aunt, Mrs. Horace Talbot, in New 
York, from whom he had brought a letter of introduction. 

And you are a nephew, as 1 understand it, of Mrs. Horace Talbot,^^ 
she went on, making her gracious eyes beam upon liim, and you have 
come here to Rome to continue your art studies?’^ 

Yes, exactly ; to be sure,^^ stammered the youth, in a sort of happy 
intoxication. He was so absorbed in the sight of her, so bewildered at 
her loveliness, that he could not divert energy enough* from his vision to 
pay proper attention to her words. 

•^^And you. Sir Percy,^^ she continued, bending the same calm, 
softly radiant gaze upon the Englishman, I presume you are fresh from 
the antipodes, as usual. Did you give my regards to the Shah of 
Persia, as I told you, and did you tell the Maharajah of Punjab that I 
disapprove of the burning of widows 

I did give your — aw — regards to the Shah,^^ said Sir Percy, with 
a chuckle. Of course I knew you were — aw — chaffing ; but then, 
don^t you know, I thought it was — aw — good fun, and so I told the 
Shah about you ; and I shouldn’t wonder — aw — if he turned up here 
one of these days and invited you to become — aw — Mrs. Shah. He 
grew uncommonly enthusiastic.” 


* The papal and the Italian party. 


578 


THE OLD ADAM. 


Thank you. Tell him I should like it above all things/^ she 
rejoined, smiling; but I should insist upon his putting away all his 
other wives, and that might cause un})leasantness.^^ 

Yes, perhaps it might, you know,’^ laughed the baronet, taking 
a large silk handkerchief from his pocket and coughing into it. 

‘‘And I hope you got that rare Nautilus you went in search of?’^ 
she queried, with an air of interest which was bewitching. 

“ The Nautilus — aw — pompilius, you mean ; but that is not — aw 
— so very rare. It was a yet unnamed — aw — species which a Dutch 
— aw — correspondent of mine at Madagascar sent me a drawing of 
that I — aw’ — went to get. AVhether it is a nautilus, strictly speaking, 
some scholar — aw — will have to decide. I mean to submit it to — aw 
— Huxley as soon as I get back to London.’^ 

“ And he will, of course, have the grace to name it after you, — 
Nautilus ArmitagibuSj or something like that. How delighted 1 shall 
be to see you immortalized in that way. Sir Percy 

“ ArmitagiuSj if you will — aw — pardon the correction,^^ ejaculated 
the baronet, flushed with enthusiasm. “ You are very kind, I am sure 
— aw — Miss Douglas ; and if you will permit me to show you my — 
aw — treasure before leaving Pome, I shall take it as a special favor.^^ 

“ Why, of course. I should have been offended if you had left 
Rome without showing it to me.^^ 

“You are so very kind, you know, so very kind,’’ he murmured, 
rising, and mopping his forehead with his red handkerchief. 

“ And perhaps you will permit me to introduce to you this young 
countryman of mine, in order that he may have a chance to share my 
pleasure. Mr. Talbot, Sir Percy Armitage. Mr. Talbot is an artist, 
and, as I am told, a very accomplished one. He has a professional in- 
terest in all that is beautiful.” 

The young American, suddenly collecting his scattered senses, 
jumped up and bowed to the baronet. He had not heard a word of 
the discussion, and did not know what he was expected to admire. 
Miss Douglas, perceiving and easily pardoning his abstraction, was, 
however, prompt to give him the clue. 

“A nautilus which it has cost a journey around the world to get 
is worthy of a place in the Capitoline Museum,” she said. 

“ I should — aw — prefer the British,”* observed Sir Percy. 

“ I should be charmed to see it,” murmured Talbot, “ though, of 
course, I am nothing of a naturalist.” 

“ Any countryman — aw — of Miss Douglas is — aw — welcome to any 
pleasure which it is in my — aw — power to bestow,” said the Briton, in 
an excess of gallantry. 

“Take care. Sir Percy. You might repent of your hospitality.” 

“ I have no fear, madam.” 

The gentlemen were both on the watch for an opportunity to take 
their leave, when Hortense, the piquante chambermaid, appeared with 
a tray of Japanese lacquer upon which were two teapots and half a 
dozen cups of the daintiest Japanese porcelain. She emerged with her 
tray from the folds of the tawny drapery like an attendant spirit in 
the “Arabian Nights” who appears when he is needed in response to the 


THE OLD ADAM. 


579 


unspoken wish. It was impossible, of course, to resist tea of such 
exquisite flavor, such teacups, and, above all, such an invitation, so 
simply and cordially spoken. The two men seated themselves again, 
and their hostess took her place at a small table, conversing with that 
beautiful ease and simplicity which made every word she uttered in a 
way remarkable, while she poured the water on the fragrant leaves and 
waited for the result to declare itself. There was an air of tlie grande 
dame about her which is extremely rare in unmarried women. It 
comes in its perfection only to happy natures, satisfied with their sur- 
roundings and secure in their dignity. It is therefore that American 
women so rarely attain it while at home. And yet, by transplantation, 
they often develop something closely resembling it. Not the perfect 
repose, perhaps, and lofty disdain which daughters of a hundred earls 
can afford to exhibit, but an admirable tact combined with a gentle ani- 
mation and a gracious suavity of demeanor. It was the combination 
of these gifts in an exceptional degree which made Constance Douglas 
the great social success which she was reputed to be in Home. She 
had, moreover, a fine amplitude of person, which never failed to im- 
press. Men, no matter where they hailed from, found themselves 
(metaphorically speaking) in the dust before her. All who knew her 
were more or less in love with her, and frankly avowed their worship- 
ful homage. 

As she sat there at the tea-table, with her noble arms moving among 
the dainty cups, you perceived that she was no longer in the first flush 
of youth. That she was past twenty-five you would have guessed from 
her speech and manner rather than from her complexion, which was 
fresh and delicate. But a certain experience is implied in a grand air 
and a noble bearing. Constance Douglas had gone abroad with her 
mother when scarcely more than a child, a few months after the destruc- 
tion of their plantation by the Federal troops. She was prematurely 
grown because of the many responsibilities which devolved upon her 
during those days, especially in connection with the great fair in aid of 
the Confederacy which was held in Liverpool in the first or second year 
of the war. Her father, who rose to be a general, was killed about that 
time in a cavalry skirmish and was duly apotheosized in the Confeder- 
ate press. He was a cool-headed and sagacious man, who had drawn 
his sword reluctantly but had wielded it bravely when no other choice 
remained for him. This one daughter, who resembled him as much as 
a woman can resemble a man without loss of charm, had been his pet 
and dearest companion from her earliest years. He had recognized 
from the first the fineness of her nature, and infused her unconsciously 
with respect for her own personality. Her mother, who was amiable 
and commonplace, was frankly puzzled at the sensation Constance made, 
but accepted the general estimate of her, and sank into willing subordi- 
nation. Some women are born to be rulers and some to be slaves, and 
it is not difficult to discover the category to which each belongs. No 
one, whose opinion was worth anything, looked twice at Miss Douglas 
without recognizing the definiteness and distinctness of her personality, 
and falling under the spell of its warm, sweet radiance. Young Tal- 
bot, who was a very sensitive piece of organism, after having absorbed 


580 


THE OLD ADAM. 


her beauty in its totality, began to analyze it, feature by feature, as he 
sipped his tea, and came to the conclusion that it was made up of some- 
thing else besides features. Her blond, wavy hair, which curled a little 
about the temples, was arranged in some simple manner, without any 
visible striving for effect. And yet the effect, Talbot thought, was ad- 
mirable. The firm and noble lines which formed the contour of her 
head made him itch to get hold of his pencil. He had never seen so 
beautiful a head before ; or, on second thought, perhaps he had, but he 
had never seen one so superbly set upon the shoulders, nor one so 
grandly carried. In fact, her whole woman was built upon a grand 
scale, like a goddess revived, lest men should lose the faculty of wor- 
ship. The mere combination of fine but not very striking features 
was quite inadequate to account for the impression which she made. 
Her forehead was rather low, or at least appeared so, her nose straight 
and delicately fashioned, the curve of her lips drawn with fine precision, 
her chin saved by the soft freshness of her complexion from appearing 
too energetic. But, after all, what idea does this imperfect catalogue 
give of how she really looked ? It was the deep-blue eyes, so calm and 
gently radiant, that lighted up these pure but not unusual features, and 
a smile that seemed new every time you saw it, and that dignified you 
in your own eyes whenever it beamed upon you. Sir Percy and Mr. 
Talbot both felt as if they had been taken into her confidence by that 
rare smile, and each felt convinced that he possessed her favor in a 
higher degree than the other. Considering this fact, which disposed 
them amiably toward creation in general, they concluded to make a few 
cautious approaches to each other, simply out of regard for the charm- 
ing hostess who was responsible for their acquaintance. 

I shouldn’t wonder if I might get you some rare specimens of 
shells from Florida,” Talbot ventured to remark, lifting his mild blue 
eyes shyly to the Englishman’s hirsute countenance. 

^^You are — aw — very civil, I am sure,” Sir Percy remarked, a 
trifle gruffly. I have all the — aw — Floridian shells already, and unless 
you should — aw — happen to discover a new species, which I don’t sup- 
pose you would — aw — be likely to do, I really shouldn’t care for them, 
you know.” 

Talbot felt as if he had been slapped in the face, and strove vainly 
to conceal his discomfiture. Miss Douglas, who was quick to interpret 
the blush that mantled his cheeks, hastened to apply balm to his 
wounded feelings. 

You know, Mr. Talbot,” she said, sweetly, that Sir Percy has 
probably the greatest collection of marine shells in the world, and has 
long since explored our American waters. Now, I should be perfectly 
delighted if you would give me a few specimens of your Florida shells, 
just because they are American, you know, and from the dear land of 
Dixie.” 

It was not only the words, but the cordiality with which they were 
uttered which suddenly raised the young man to a pinnacle of distinc- 
tion. He looked down upon the baronet with exultation from glorious 
heights. 

If you will permit me to send you the few modest conchs which 


THE OLD ADAM. 581 

I picked up last winter on the Florida reefs/^ he said, with happy ani- 
mation, 1 shall be very much pleased.’^ 

I shall expect them surely, and I shall hold them to my ear in the 
hope that they will murmur some melody of the Southern sea.’^ 

1 hope they will, I^m sure ; but I am afraid they will disappoint 
you. You know, of course, I have no scientific knowledge of shells, 
like Mr. — Mr. Percy — beg your pardon — Mr. Armitage, I mean.^^ 

The poor fellow turned his eyes appealingly to Miss Douglas. He 
knew he was blundering, but he could not make up his mind to call a 
stranger by his first name. He seemed to be running his head into a 
noose in whatever direction he turned. Miss Douglas returned his 
glance with smiling sympathy, and was about to speak, but was antici- 
pated by Sir Percy. 

You do me more^ — aw — honor than I deserve,’^ he said. I have 
no — aw — scientific interest whatever in shells. The fact is, I was — aw 
— suffering from a disease of the liver, and my physician ordered me 
to get up — aw — some interest in something — aw — or other, just to 
divert me, you know, and make time pass. I tried race-horses, but — 
aw — got tired of them. I couldn^t help backing my own — aw — beasts, 
you know. I didn’t mind so much the money I lost on them ; but the 
— aw — vexation, you know, the vexation, — that was having a bad 
effect on my system, and I had — aw — to give them up.” 

I don’t wonder,” Constance replied, at your giving up your race- 
horses. But those beautiful cows you showed me at Donuymere, three 
years ago, — I can scarcely forgive you for selling them.” 

Blooded cattle, you know — aw — are an awful bore,” the baronet 
rejoined, with the emphasis of conviction. ‘‘ I tried Alderneys first, 
but — aw — they ran all to cream and wasted money. They gave — aw — 
too rich milk and too little of it to pay for their feed and care. I had 
— aw — no better luck with the — aw — Jerseys; and as for the Short- 
horns, I could have murdered them before — aw — I was done with them. 
But they spared me the trouble, for they — aw — had an unpleasant habit 
of dying without — aw — a moment’s warning.” 

‘‘ But I have a tender spot in my heart for those lovely cows yet,” 
Constance declared. ^‘ If they had been mine, I should have been 
tempted to go into mourning for them.” 

Half an hour passed, and they sat chatting and sipping tea and 
luxuriating in a vague, unobtrusive felicity which it seemed a pity to 
make an end of. Sir Percy was waiting for Talbot to make the signal 
for departure, and Talbot was waiting for Sir Percy. To tear one’s 
self away from the presence of a woman so perfect in face, dress, and 
manner requires a- heroism of which neither was possessed. There 
was a sweet intoxication in merely listening to her voice and in inhaling 
the aroma of her exquisite personality. But the entrance of the maid 
Hortense, carrying a silver salver upon which lay a card whose small 
size indicated that it belonged to the masculine gender, was felt as a 
faint discord and sufficed to break the spell. 

Sir Percy got up with a desire to strangle the gentleman who had 
the impertinence to choose such an inopportune moment for his call, 
and Talbot made three efforts to detach himself from his chair. He 


582 


THE OLD ADAM. 


was quite clear in his mind that he would have liked to spend the rest 
of his life in Miss Douglases company ; but he was not at all sure that 
she reciprocated his desire. With a good deal of blushing and confu- 
sion he managed, however, to make his exit without having committed 
himself, and brushed in the door- way against an officer in a splendid 
French uniform, the scabbard of whose sword knocked against the stairs 
for each step he took. He noticed, too, that Sir Percy, who was a few 
steps behind him, bowed to the gorgeous. Gaul with a ferocity as if 
he would like to eat him. 

That monkey of a Frenchman he muttered to himself, as he de- 
scended the stairs. 

But from within they presently heard, through the yet unclosed 
door. Miss Constance’s voice greeting the visitor with joyous cordiality. 

‘‘ Count de Saint-Reault !” she exclaimed, in French. I am 
pleased to see you.” 


CHAPTER II. 

ARCADES AMBO. 

I DO not know whether it was fate, or chance, or the common 
grudge against the obnoxious Frenchman, which drew Talbot and Sir 
Percy together and inclined them to a few exchanges of frigid civility. 
Thus, when they met by accident, a few days after their call upon Miss 
Douglas, in a small bronze-shop in the Via Marguta, the baronet sub- 
mitted some specimens of the craftsman’s art to the young American 
and asked his opinion of them. Talbot, in whose mind Sir Percy, 
witli all his disagreeableness, was somehow associated with Miss Doug- 
las, resolved to be amiable, and gave quite an elaborate opinion, which 
revealed incidentally his taste and intimate knowledge. 

Why, to be sure, you are — aw — rather clever, don’t you know?” 
the Briton observed, with a fi’ank surprise which was anything but 
complimentary to his interlocutor. 

Talbot, who always blushed when he did not know what else to do, 
exhibited a flaming and disgusted face, but had no phrase in readiness 
wherewith to express his displeasure. Sir Percy, on the other hand, 
who had meant to be particularly pleasant, could not understand how 
he had given offence. 

These Americans are — aw — rather a queer lot — aw — uncommonly 
queer lot,” he remarked to the bronze-worker as Talbot pickal up his 
hat and violently jingled the shrill little door-bell in his eagerness to 
be gone. 

A few days later they ran against each other in the Borghese 
gallery and had again a little disagreement; and before the week had 
ended they had had at least half a dozen encounters. Sir Percy 
haunted the galleries early and late, in spite of the fact that he declared 
them to be a bore, — a deuced bore, — and Talbot, who was yet in the 
picturesque intoxication which usually comes in the second or third 
week of one’s sojourn in Rome, revelled with a glorious unrestraint in 
the beauty that crowded in upon him on all hands. He was not in 
the least afraid of appearing fresh, but praised and condemned with a 


THE OLD ADAM. 


583 


heedless sincerity which to Sir Percy appeared quite delightful. In 
fact, he completely conquered the latter’s regard by a piece of eccen- 
tricity which would scarcely have commended him to anybody else’s 
favor. They had been spending the morning together in the Vati- 
can, Talbot deeply absorbed in the contemplation of K-aphaePs famous 
loggie and stanze, and the baronet stalking about with a bored air and 
frowning upon every one who crossed his path. They had no inten- 
tion of keeping company, but as they found themselves by chance on 
the steps at the hour of closing, and it was raining hard, Sir Percy 
could not well avoid offering the young man a seat in his cab. 

‘‘I am much obliged/’ said Talbot; “but I should have to take 
you out of your way : I have to go to the telegraph office.” 

“ Never mind. I’ll take you there.” 

Away they rolled past the great fountain and the long colonnade 
that encloses the Square of St. Peter, and after a short drive reached 
the telegraph office, where the painter alighted. 

“ You won’t take it amiss — aw,” began Sir Percy, when after an 
absence of a few minutes he returned, “if I ask you — aw — if you 
telegraphed for money, don’t you know? Artists, you know, and 
that sort of thing — aw — well, you mustn’t be huffy about it, but if — 
aw — I can accommodate you in any way, you needn’t hesitate to let me 
know ; that is, if you feel like it, don’t you see ?” 

Talbot was too vividly conscious of the Briton’s benevolent inten- 
tion to be at all huffy, but, for all that, the patronage and condescension 
implied in this unsolicited offer of pecuniary aid grated upon his sensi- 
bilities. He twirled his tawny moustache with nervous indecision, and 
blushed like a peony, while he summoned courage to stammer, “ No, 
I thank you ; I don’t need money at all, — or rather, I should say, I 
have all I want for the present. The message I sent related to quite 
different matters ; in fiict, it related to Raphael.” 

“ Raphael ! Did you telegraph about Raphael ?” 

“ Yes : I telegraphed to the fellows of our club at home that I was 
disappointed in him.” 

“ You cabled to America that you were — aw — disappointed in 
Raphael !” 

Sir Percy’s amazement knew no bounds. He leaned forward with 
an eagerness not often seen in his apathetic features, and scrutinized the 
young artist’s face with vivid interest. 

“ You know, the fellows at home they set some store by my 
opinion ” Talbot explained, struggling with his embarrassment, “and it 
is the night of their monthly meeting : they will get it just in time.” 

“Yes, yes, — I shouldn’t wonder,” observed the baronet. “And 
the fellows, you say, set store by your — aw — opinion. Well, now — 
aw — since we are talking about it, so do I. And wouldn’t you — aw — 
come and dine with me to-night, if you have nothing better? And 
then — aw — you will tell me too — don’t you know? — why you are 
disappointed in Raphael.” 

Although he had not the least inclination to accept, Talbot vainly 
hunted in his brain for the proper phrases wherewith to decline, and, 
failing to find them, murmured something which sounded like “ thanks” 


584 


THE OLD ADAM. 


and honbr’^ and which could mean nothing but acceptance. He 
had, accordingly, no choice but to present himself at the appointed 
hour at the Palazzo Altemps, where the baronet had a superb apart- 
ment, which he rented by the year. Whether it was the wine he drank 
or the mere artistic aroma of the magnificent high-eeiled rooms which 
went to Talbot’s brain, it was undeniable that his capricious use of 
language had something peeuliarly kindling about it, and Sir Percy 
was completely fascinated. He made him talk without ceasing, drew 
him out by all sorts of ingenious questions, and ineited him to contro- 
versy by contradiction. 

Those fishermen of Galilee,” the young enthusiast exclaimed, in 
his fiery indictment of Raphael’s art, what sort of fish, 1 should like 
to know, could they have caught with those ample academ’ic robes ? If 
you ever caught a blue-fish on a trolling-line, or a black bass with 
a grasshopper on your hook, you will admit the absurdity of the cos- 
tume of Raphael’s apostles. But they are only surpassed in absurdity 
by the faces. Men with such noble, pensive brows, such philosophic 
melancholy, do not take to fishing for a living ; and, if they did, they 
would starve at it. Their classic features would become furrowed, 
scratched, and weather-beaten. And, I confess, to me they would be far 
more beautiful if the wind, the. sun, and the rain had put the stamp of 
toil and suifering upon them. But the whole academic art is a false- 
hood from beginning to end, — a beautiful lie, which the nations be- 
lieved in as long as there were men among them whose genius sufficed 
to vitalize the lie, to fill it with their own blood-red personalities. 
Therefore I like Michael Angelo’s colossal conceptions, even if they be 
lies, better than Raphael’s; because the man behind them is so great 
that you care for nothing except his stupendous self, — his mighty 
thought that sprang into being in stone and marble and color.” 

I swear,” remarked Sir Percy, when, long after midnight, he took 
leave of his tranrsatlantic guest, ‘‘ I would take my oath on it that I 
never met a cleverer fellow than you in all my life. I have been pretty 
much everywhere, — don’t you know? — but men and — aw — women are 
about as stupid in China as they are in London, and in Kamchatka as 
in Paris. But you, — I’d take my oath on it, — you are — aw — you are 
uncommonly clever. You must dine with me soon again, and I’ll have 
some — aw — pleasant people here to meet you.” 

That was the beginning of the curious friendship, which so long 
puzzled the Eternal City, between Sir Percy Armitage, Bart., and the 
young and obscure American, George Talbot, Esq., whose career forms 
a not unimportant portion of the present narrative. It was but a few 
days after the above-recorded meeting that the painter was induced 
to take up his quarters in the Palazzo Altemps, where he fared sump- 
tuously and entertained his host by his iconoclastic opinions. He in- 
spected the famous collection of marine shells which had cost its 
proprietor a moderate fortune, and which had kept him for several 
years in a spasmodic vacillation between the antipodes. Most people 
hearing of his good fortune envied him, and there was but one who 
expressed regret ; and that was Miss Douglas. 


THE OLD ADAM. 


585 


CHAPTER III. 

AMONG THE DEAD. 

It was about a week after his removal to the Palazzo Altemps 
that George Talbot received a card informing him that Mrs. and Miss 
Douglas would be at home every Wednesday afternoon from December 
1 until April 1, — an announcement which filled his breast with conflicting 
emotions. He had about made up his mind that Miss Douglas was 
too absorbing a creature to admit of a divided allegiance. A man 
could scarcely cultivate the arts and her at the same time. He would 
have to take his choice and abide by it. That it would be folly for 
him to aspire for the love of so queenly a woman, accustomed to uni- 
versal homage, was a reflection which in his saner moments often 
invaded the young man^s mind. But the old proverb, ‘^Nothing 
venture, nothing win,^^ seemed so very appropriate in this connection 
that he could not afford to turn a deaf ear to the faint whisper of hope 
which it contained. He had walked about in a state of feverish uneasi- 
ness during the last week, nursing all sorts of wild plans whereby to 
attract the world^s attention, and thereby Miss Douglas’s favor. But 
there was always a hitch in all of them which made it seem advisable 
to postpone their execution to a more convenient time. He found it 
impossible to work while this frame of mind lasted, and therefore 
placed himself entirely at Sir Percy’s disposal, roaming with him over 
the Campagna, and visiting Tivoli, Frascati, Tusculum, and all the de- 
lightful villages in the Alban and Sabine Mountains. It was during 
one of these idle rambles that they happened to enter the ghastly crypt 
of the Capuchin monastery, where the mummified corpses of dead 
monks stand in niches along the walls, and skulls, teeth, shoulder- 
blades, and thigh-bones, arranged in architectural designs, curdle one’s 
blood with their hideous object-lessons in mortality. Sir Percy, who 
had once contemplated a jpollection of similar mortuary relics to be 
artistically arranged in his private chapel at Donnymere, was talking 
laborious and incorrect Italian with the monk who acted as their 
guide, being anxious to know whether the monastery (considering the 
fact that the Italian government would be sure to confiscate the collec- 
tion sooner or later) might not be induced to sell out at a reasonable 
price, and have the skeletons and the soil from Jerusalem exported to 
England, where the good brothers would have a much better chance of 
an undisturbed sleep, while awaiting the summons of the last trump. 
The monk, who was accustomed to all sorts of queer propositions from 
Englishmen, smiled blandly, but refused to commit himself. 

‘‘ I suppose the old fellow expects — aw — some day himself to deco- 
rate the vault with his — aw — ribs and legs and empty eye-sockets,” 
Sir Percy remarked in English to Talbot, who stood lost in contem- 
plation of a hooded corpse whose fleshless hands and nose were pro- 
truding from the sacred soil. 

It is more likely he has staked his soul’s salvation on the chance 
of sleeping for a while in the soil from Golgotha, until a later claimant 


586 


THE OLD ADAM. 


comes and ousts him/^ said the American : those monks often have 
peccadilloes on their conscience which require heroic treatment/^ 

Thin it is a moighty slim chance Oi have, sorr,^^ the monk re- 
marked, in the broadest Irish brogue. ^Tis the guverrnmint of the 
infidel usurperrs won’t allow no more burrials insoide the walls at all, 
at all.” 

lie turned with an air of deep disgust toward the door, which was 
just being opened from the outside, admitting a broad stream of sun- 
light, in which the illuminated dust danced. A tall, handsome girl, 
accompanied by a stooping, dark-complexioned man, entered and ad- 
vanced with a brisk and rather masculine stride toward the friar. 
There was something a trifle defiant in the erectness of her bearing, in 
the unabashed stare of her light blue eyes, and in the free and easy 
manner in which she moved her blond, attractive head. That she was 
an American, there could be no doubt. She might be described as a 
very personification of the Declaration of Independence. Even the 
loose lock of crimped hair which had escaped from its confinement and 
curled about her ear seemed bent upon asserting its freedom. She 
wore a brown spring ulster, buttoned with enormous bronzed buttons 
representing owl’s heads, and a rakish-looking soft hat, set askew and 
trimmed with an audacious bunch of feathers. In her hand she carried 
a stout umbrella, which she swung like a walking-stick. Her com- 
panion, who was tall and large-limbed, was wrapped in a thick dark 
overcoat which was a trifle rusty and threadbare. A dense, black, un- 
cared-for beard hung in rags and tags about his cheeks and chin, and 
a pair of fiery black eyes gazed forth from under the broad brim of 
his ecclesiastical-looking hat. His features were crude and strong, with 
just a touch of half-subdued savagery. As he removed his hat on 
entering the vault, a broad, angular forehead became visible, upon which 
there was a scar, as from a burn. His hair, which was thick and black, 
was divided on the right side ; and in the parting there was a cowlick 
which had raised a tuft, so that it stood up straight. The occiput was 
strongly developed, and had a rugged look. . The hair in the back was 
a trifle long, and hung an inch over the coat-collar. He kept one fist 
clinched, and wallced with a long, eager stride which expressed restless- 
ness and energy. The man was, to all appearances, about thirty years 
old ; but there were lines in his face and deep perpendicular wrinkles 
in his brow which thirty years would not have sufficed to trace. 

^^Nat,” said the girl, in a bold but not unmelodious voice, ^^what 
did you take me into such a nasty place for? I don’t like dead 
folks, especially when they stand up on end and pretend to be so- 
ciable.” 

I think it is a very interesting place,” her companion retorted, in a 
deep, sonorous bass. It does every one good to be brought face to fa^^e 
with death. It reminds us how brief our little span of years is, and 
how fleeting are earthly joys and sorrows.” 

Don’t preach to me, sir,” ejaculated the girl, with a laugh which 
resounded strangely in the sepulchral vault. You know it’s no good. 
Who did you say these interesting gentlemen are?” 

Capucliins.” 


THE OLD ADAM. 587 

Yes, I see they have got caps, but I don’t think their chins are 
much to brag of.” 

She laughed again, and lifted her umbrella as if to poke one of the 
defunct friars with the end of it. Her companion, whose rigid sobriety 
seemed a rebuke to her levity, quickly seized her wrist and held it in a 
tight grip. 

‘‘Delia,” he said, sternly, “do not carry your antics too far. You 
know I am responsible for you.” 

“ Well, I like that!” she ejaculated, with a saucy fling of her head. 
“ If you are responsible for me, Nat Burroughs, you have a pretty big 
contract on your hands, I tell youJ^ 

She took a little swaggering promenade in front of the great wall 
of skulls, as if to assert her independence, and then, returning to her 
Mentor, coolly observed, — 

“ I should like these gentlemen better, Nat, if they had a little more 
flesh on their bones.” 

“ I should like you better,” he retorted, “ if you could be serious in 
the presence of serious things.” 

Talbot and Sir Percy, who had been standing at the farther end -of 
the crypt, with their backs to the new-comers, had listened with much 
amusement to this colloquy. 

“Countrymen of yours, apparently,” said Sir Percy, with that 
quiet satisfaction which an Englishman feels when an American makes 
a fool of himself. 

“ Yes, apparently,” sighed Talbot. 

“Do you know them?” 

“ I am afraid I do, — that is, I have met the girl. I have not yet 
looked at her, but her style is unmistakable.” 

“ Who is she ?” 

“ Miss Saunders, — Cordelia Saunders, known to the newspapers as 
the Beautiful Heathen. She is a dress-reformer, temperance-lecturer, 
woman-suffragist, and I don’t know what not. She has written a book 
on the Mormons, with her picture with a high man’s collar on, as a 
frontispiece.” 

Miss Saunders, who in her promenade had approached the two gen- 
tlemen, was suddenly struck with the resolute and uncompromising look 
of the large and the small back which they presented to her. She saw 
at once that there was an intention in this unnatural immobility, and 
guessed easily what that intention was. The spirit of deviltry was 
aroused in her, and she stationed herself behind them and viewed them 
with exaggerated interest. Sir Percy’s broad figure, arrayed in a rough 
Tweed sack-coat and trousers, his red, angry-looking neck, covered with 
fine hair which here and there grew in capricious little curls, his stout 
legs wide apart, and his hands thrust into his coat-pockets, seemed to 
her a very epitome of Great Britain, while Talbot’s imitation of the 
attitude, on a smaller scale, seemed no less characteristically American. 

“ Are these two part of your collection ?” she asked the Irish monk 
in her loud voice, pointing at the two backs with her umbrella. 

“ No, mum ; not as I know of, mum,” replied the friar, curbing his 
Hibernian wit, which suggested quite a different answer. 


588 


THE OLD ADAM, 


Nat/^ she continued, turning to her companion, who was again at 
her side, you don’t think there is any chance of my selling any of 
my Emancipation Waists to any of these gentlemen ? On the whole, I 
think they are dressed in a very sensible fashion. I have no reform to 
suggest, except in their manners.” 

Sir Percy, who a moment ago had been bristling with dignity and 
anger, found this remark so droll that he had to laugh. 

She is rather clever, don’t you know ?” he whispered to his proUgL 
Suppose we turn around and walk out?” 

As you please,” Talbot answered, and suited his action to the words. 

Why, Georgie Talbot !” cried Miss Saunders, enthusiastically, 
grasping his hand and shaking it as if she meant to shake it off. I 
am delighted to see you. Why, it rejoices my soul to see your good 
American face, even though your hair is parted in the middle.” 

Yours, I presume, is parted on the side,” he answered, with a 
feeble smile, so of course I had no other expedient left to indicate 
my sex by.” 

Good for you, Georgie ! Why, you’ve grown quite smart since I 
saw you last.” 

Permit me to suggest that it is you who have acquired greater 
penetration.” 

Now, that is not bad, either. In fact, it is rather good. Why, 
George Talbot, I haven’t appreciated you properly. We must see a 
good deal of each other this winter. I am staying at Madame Tellen- 
bach’s, on the Spanish Piazza, — isn’t that it? You know where that 
is?” 


Yes, I know.” 

I am at home pretty much every evening, and shall be expecting 
you real soon.” 

Thank you. I shall be sure to call.” 

And your friend there, — if you want to bring him along, he is 
welcome.” 

Talbot, although he had been standing on needles, expecting some 
such breach of etiquette, was so shocked that he scarcely knew what to 
answer. He was determined to save Sir Percy an undesirable acquaint- 
ance, even at the expense of his own politeness, and was just framing 
some transparent excuse, when, to his astonishment, the baronet stepped 
up, as if to participate in the conversation. He had then, of course, no 
choice but to introduce him. 

Sir Percy Armitage, Miss Saunders,” he murmured, gazing from 
the one to the other, and wondering what the world was coming to. 

Pleased to make your acquaintance. Miss Saunders,” said Sir 
Percy, stiffly. 

I knew you were an Englishman the moment I put my eyes on 
you,” exclaimed Cordelia, unabashed. Our American gentlemen never 
have such necks and such backs ; at least it isn’t the part of themselves 
they are proud of and want to show off.” 

A gleam of amusement lighted up Sir Percy’s eyes, and he chuckled 
again. He saw the point of her sarcasm well enough, but he chose not 
to notice it. 


THE OLD ADAM. 589 

Yes, your climate — aw — is rather drier than ours,’^ he remarked, 
ill his lieavy drawl. It does not develop a sturdy physique.^’ 

‘‘Yes, and our habits are drier, too,^^ she retorted. “We don^t 
drink so much.^^ 

“I wasn’t aware of that. I thought — aw — your national pride 
was based largely on your mixed drinks. At all events — aw — I 
found it so when — aw — I was in America, three years ago.” 

“ You evidently got into bad company, Mr. Armitage. You know 
mixed society is quite as destructive of morals as mixed drinks.” 

“ Next time I go, I shall — aw — with your permission, put myself 
in your charge, and you will — aw — inform me where I can study the 
national manners to advantage.” 

“I shall be delighted. You know I have recently taken the 
European agency for the Emancipation Waist, which is to take the 
place of the tight and ruinous corsets with which women now under- 
mine their health. If I could have an English baronet in tow, it would 
be worth a hundred thousand as an advertisement.” 

“ I don’t quite see that, you know. But — aw — I am not sure — aw 
— that I should relish being appreciated — aw — in the light of an ad- 
vertisement.” 

They kept up their international sparring for some minutes, until 
the lugubrious gentleman in the rusty overcoat came up and stood 
watching for an opportunity to address the lady. She promptly seized 
the opportunity to introduce him. 

“ This is my cousin, Mr. Burroughs, of South Bend, Indiana,” she 
said, indicating the black-browed man with the point of her umbrella. 
“ He got into the clutches of a sly and smooth-spoken Jesuit, some 
years ago, and got converted to Catholicism. Now he has come here 
to be consecrated for the priesthood. I came along just to keep him 
straight, you know.” 

She mentioned neither Talbot’s nor Sir Percy’s Qame, but contented 
herself with epitomizing her cousin’s biography in a version of which 
the subject manifestly disapproved. 

“ I wish you would tell the truth about me, if you have to tell any- 
thing,” he said, with rude severity ; then, turning to the two gentlemen, 
he continued, earnestly, “ It is the Lord who has guided me in the 
path I have chosen, and Jesuit craft has had nothing to do with it.” 

It was a little embarrassing to resume the thread of the jocular con- 
versation after that solemn declaration, and, prompted by a simultaneous 
impulse, all began to move toward the door. Sir Percy gave a lira to 
the monk, as he emerged into the daylight, and received in return his 
blessing. He then dumfounded Talbot by inviting Miss Saunders 
and her cousin to occupy the vacant seats in his carriage, and by 
betraying an interest in the lady’s slangy remarks which seemed quite 
incomprehensible. The mere fact that she was pretty could scarcely 
account for such eccentric conduct on the part of a middle-aged gentle- 
man who was nothing short of an oracle in matters of etiquette. Miss 
Saunders was apparently twenty-five or twenty-six years old, and, 
though decidedly loud, was neither in dress nor appearance vulgar. 
Whether she herself wore the Emancipation Waist from which she 
Tol. XLI.-~38 


590 


THE OLD ADAM. 


promised herself such untold blessings to the race, could not by a 
superficial view be determined ; but her tailor-made ulster fitted very 
snugly about her tall, handsome form, and her boots were so neat and 
shapely that you felt tempted to shake hands with them. She had 
blond hair and a good complexion, but her most distinctive feature was 
her pale-blue eyes, with that challenging stare in them, which turned 
their inquisitive light with the same irreverent scrutiny upon whatever 
came in their way. In the whole cut and expression of her face there 
was something unshrinking, unveiled, and frankly resolute. It might 
have been a handsome boy’s face, except for the lips, whose soft curve 
was feminine. You saw that she had set out in an adventurous mood 
to conquer the world, and that she anticipated no great difficulty in 
accomplishing her purpose. With all her audacity, she was clothed 
in innocence aa in a garment. Even Sir Percy, though he was no great 
philosopher, had not talked long with her before he perceived that she 
was touchingly ignorant of the world which she was challenging to 
battle. He even began to suspect that she misbehaved from principle, 
or at least exaggerated her disregard of social forms for the purpose of 
asserting, in the name of her sex, her contempt for them. Sir Percy 
admitted to himself, as he sat opposite to her in his cab, listening to her 
glib, reckless talk, that he did not dislike her half as much as he had 
expected to do. She refused to be classified, of course, and it was im- 
possible to pick out any social sphere to which she belonged. But then 
that was a peculiarity she had in common with the majority of her 
countrymen, who were impossible, from the English point of view, and 
yet, considered from any other point of view, not only possible, but 
both clever and entertaining. Sir Percy, being at present abroad and 
bent upon amusement, resolved in a mild and harmless way to cultivate 
Miss Saunders. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A CHARMING TfJTE-l-TfSTE. 

George Talbot was enjoying the felicity of a itie-h-iUe with 
Miss Douglas in the little Renaissance reception-room. There were a 
hundred things he would have liked to tell her, but her beauty 
stupefied him like strong wine and made him incoherent and distracted. 
All sorts of daring speeches trembled on the tip of his tongue, but 
when he attempted to utter them they turned out to be feeble and com- 
monplace and quite different from vffiat he had intended. He knew, 
of course, that it would be absurd to talk to her of love on so short 
an acquaintance, but he had an idea that it would not be amiss if he 
could convey to her an impression of his profound and abject ad- 
miration, without yet trespassing on forbidden territory. Her gentle 
affability, which was yet so full of reserve, made him suspect a long 
experience in warding off tender avowals. She was purposely obtuse, 
because she did not wish to understand. She treated him with a sort 
of elder-sisterly kindness which was quite exasperating. She was 
obviously sorry for him, and wished to be spared the necessity of 
wounding his feelings. He half regretted that he had come, and yet 


THE OLD ADAM. 


591 


luxuriated in the sight of her noble, placid face and her exquisitely 
tasteful costume. He would have been at a loss to describe it; but 
the general effect was that of rich and ancient lace, and warm, sub- 
dued colors harmoniously blended. Her arms, which were half visible 
through the sleeves, struck him with wonder, they were so firm and 
white, and the little dimple in the wrist emphasized the perfection of 
their modelling. The clear warm shadow of her chin upon the little 
glimpse of neck which was bared made him almost shiver with 
delicious appreciation. He revelled in the sight of her, yet was 
strangely impressed with her remoteness, her preciousness, her august 
dignity, by virtue of a beauty which seemed exalted above common 
humanity. 

I hear from Sir Percy,^^ she was saying, obviously to make con- 
versation, that you are so charmingly situated in the Palazzo Altemps. 
I am told your studio. is quite a museum of Eastern rugs and bric-ci- 
bracJ^ 

^ Eastern rugs, — yes, quite so,^^ murmured he, lost in contempla- 
tion. 

And now, I suppose, you are preparing to lay siege to Rome and 
take it by storm.^^ 

No. Oh, no ; I have no hostile intentions whatever,’^ he replied, 
with burning ears. He was beginning to suspect that he was surpass- 
ing himself in asininity. 

It would not be the first time the barbarians have conquered the 
Eternal City,^^ she observed, with that radiant smile which always put 
his apprehensions to flight. It wa§ so warm, so satisfying, so reas- 
suring, so expressive of interest and kindly feeling, that all torturing 
doubt and fear and jarring emotions evaporated in it like dew in the 
sunshine. As Count de Saint-R4ault (an avowed adorer of Miss 
Douglas) remarked, it would make the damned forget their woes. It 
was a sufficient equipment for success both in this world and in the 
world to come, for it could only belong to a noble and exquisite per- 
sonality. 

I was a little afraid, Mr. Talbot,’^ she began, after a pause, that 
it would not be for your good to be too closely associated with a rich 
and eccentric man like Sir Percy. You know I believe independence, 
even if coupled with poverty, to be a precious thing, and, if you will 
allow me to be frank with you, I have just a foolish little fear that 
you will not be able to assert your personality in the presence of Sir 
Percy, if you have to look up to him as your benefactor.^^ 

She gazed sweetly at him with her gentle eyes, and there was such 
a world of kindliness and sympathy in her words that the young man 
could not help being touched. A warm current of emotion gushed 
through his veins, and he felt irresponsibly and irrationally happy. 
With an effort he aroused himself, ran his fingers through his hair, and 
walked abruptly to the window. He was not aware at the time that 
the view from that window is famous. And to Talbot it did not mat- 
ter, for he scarcely saw anything of what he was looking at. He 
turned about at the end of a minute or two, feeling clothed and in his 
right mind.^^ 


592 


THE OLD ADAM. 


It is very kind of you, Miss Douglas/^ he said, with a desperate 
effort to clear his thoughts, as his eyes again rested upon her, to feel 
any apprehension on my account. I have no fear myself of losing my 
personality in that of Sir Percy. The fact is,’^ he added, recklessly, 
my personality is lost already. My heart, my reason, my very soul, 
is lost, but it is not Sir Percy’s fault.” 

He had half expected her to ask whose fault it was, but for some 
reason she betrayed no curiosity to know. He felt a wild need to tear 
his hair, to rend his clothes, as the Israelites of old did when the world 
went against them, or to make some other violent demonstration of 
des])air. But her clear, calm voice (which was not a whit less kindly 
than before) again soothed his agitation and made him cry out to the 
gods to make him behave rationally. 

That is, on the whole, a very wholesome feeling,” she said in re- 
sponse to his dithyrambics, ^^and I should be sorry for an artist who 
w^as incapable of the emotion which you describe. It shows that you 
have intensity of feeling, — that you are capable of great things. I like 
to hear a young man talk in that strain, for it is rare to find one now- 
adays who has heart and is not afraid of showing it.” 

Talbot felt that if he stayed a moment longer he would be sure to 
do or say something which would compel her to dash his hopes to the 
ground. And, as even the vaguest and absurdest kind of uncertainty 
was preferable to the pitiless certainty, he was unwilling to challenge 
the Fates. As he got up to take his leave he chanced to see his face in 
the mirror, and it gave him quite a shock. His cheeks and forehead 
were not scarlet, but almost purple, and his features had a look of ex- 
citement which suggested insanity. And opposite to him in the mirror 
stood she, placid as a goddess, and as unattainable. She was smiling 
affably, — a trifle condescendingly, he thought, — and it flashed through 
his mind that he was but one of a long procession of victims who had 
immolated themselves upon her altar. He was not the first, nor would 
he be the last. During that brief instant she appeared almost hateful 
to him, like a cruel, heartless Circe who sat with her placid smile feast- 
ing upon broken hearts. But when he bade her adieu, and held her 
hand in his, the warm thrill of her touch went rippling through his 
frame, and by the time he had reached the bottom of the stairs the 
vision of her incomparable loveliness rose again before his fancy, and 
he was ready to do penance in sackcloth and ashes for his disloyal 
thought. 


CHAPTER V. 

SIR PERCY^S PICNIC. 

Sir Percy, arrayed in drab from his hat to his gaiters, stood upon 
a box in the railroad d^pot, surveying his forces, like a field-marshal 
on the eve of a battle. He held in his hand a stout stick, with which 
he pointed energetically now in this direction, now in that, while he 
gave orders to a dozen liveried servants, who ran excitedly about carry- 
ing shawl-straps, hand-bags, and baskets of provisions. It was Sir 
Percy’s habit to repay the hospitalities of which he had been the recip- 


THE OLD ADAM, 


593 


ient daring the year by an annual picnic or excursion into the Sabine or 
Alban Mountains, to which all were invited who could make out a valid 
title to his acquaintance. On the present occasion there were about 
thirty-fiv^e or forty ladies and gentlemen of various nationalities who 
had been thus honored; and a confusion of French, Italian, and Eng- 
lish exclamations were heard from the waiting-room, where they stood 
in scattered groups in the neighborhood of the doors, watching for the 
signal to embark. Among the first to step out upon the platform 
when the signal was given was Miss Douglas, escorted by Count de 
Saint-Reault, a curly-headed, fine-looking man, with a needle-pointed 
moustache and goatee. Although he was in civil attire, his bearing 
was distinctly military, and in his manner there was a certain exagger- 
ated courtesy which is found nowhere outside of France. The count 
was taller and of larger build than the average of his countrymen ; 
and his broad, masculine neck and small occiput showed a strain of 
English blood. He was gallantly stooping over Constance, or inclining 
his body toward her, while she spoke, and his expression and attitude 
betokened the liveliest admiration. Beyond doubt, there was also an 
unwonted animation in her features as she glanced up into the hand- 
some officer's face and with \\^\t persiflage responded to his hyperbol- 
ical ‘compliments. There was a dewy look in her eyes and a morning 
freshness in her whole appearance which were ravishing. With all her 
simplicity, you saw, if you were a connoisseur, that she was a consum- 
mate product of civilization. The broad-brimmed brown Gainsborough 
hat she wore, the fawn-colored sack which clung to her trim figure 
as if it were but a divestible epidermis, the inimitable perfection of 
arrangement and color in every detail of her attire, represented some- 
thing unattainable except to a very select few whom ancestry and en- 
vironment have favored. The other ladies, as they walked out upon 
the platform, ostensibly absorbed in the remarks of their masculine 
companions, were furtively taking notes on Miss Douglas’s toilet and 
wondering how under the sun she could afford to dress like that. 

It was a delightfully good-humored assemblage which gathered, 
under Sir Percy’s auspices, in the railroad d4p6t on that pleasant No- 
vember morning. The majority had an agreeable sense of distinction 
at finding themselves in such a select company, and were content with 
the world, because they were content with themselves. The only ones 
who seemed unconscious of the honor which had been bestowed upon 
them, and for whose presence no one seemed able to account, were 
Cordelia Saunders and her cousin, Mr. Burroughs. Sir Percy, who 
had had his own reasons for inviting them, but nevertheless felt that 
they were a trifle out of place, took pains to explain to everybody that 
they were not friends of his, you know, but, being Americans, and 
rather clever people, — you know, — in fact, uncommonly clever, he had 
wished to be civil to them, just out of regard for Talbot, who was an 
uncommonly nice fellow, — ^you know, — and really quite clever, — in fact, 
uncommonly clever. Nor did Talbot, when he overheard one of these 
speeches, dare to utter the astonishment he felt, and fiir less to repu- 
diate the friendship of his aggressive countrywoman. When the guard 
rang his bell and the well-dressed, well-groomed ladies and gentlemen 


594 


*THE OLD ADAM. 


took their seats in the railroad-coup5s, the young man managed, by a 
little innocent slyness, to become incarcerated in the same compartment 
with Mrs. and Miss Douglas and the dazzling Count de Saint-R^ault. 
Although the latter^s presence was not a source of unalloyed bliss, 
Talbot had arrived at that stage of infatuation when the tortures of 
jealousy seemed preferable to those of unsatisfied yearning. His face 
was bathed in happy blushes while he bowed to Mrs. Douglas and ex- 
changed the frigid civilities of an introduction with the Frenchman. 
He had nothing in particular to say that seemed appropriate to the 
occasion, and therefore only smiled in amiable confusion and nestled in 
a corner of the sofa where he had Miss Constance^s face in a good light. 
Her mother, who was a fussy little short-sighted woman, with unmis- 
takable remnants of beauty, displeased him greatly by engaging him 
in conversation ; and he only concluded to forgive her on the score of 
a relationship which seemed a claim to immortality. He had just 
resigned himself to cultivating the mother for the daughter’s sake, 
when to his horror he saw that Miss Saunders had caught sight of him 
and was steering straight toward him. 

Look a-here, Georgie Talbot,” she said, addressing him through 
the open window, I don’t think you are as smart as you think you 
are. If you want to run away from me, you have got to hide better 
than that. Mr. Percy said I was to look after you, you know, so that 
you don’t get into mischief, and I mean to keep my eye on you, whether 
you like it or not.” 

She beckoned to the guard to open the door, and without the least 
ceremony seated herself at his side, opposite Mrs. Douglas. In the 
same moment the locomotive shrieked, and the train began slowly to 
crawl out of the d5p6t. It was a special train, chartered for the occa- 
sion ; and it was Sir Percy himself who, in token of his proprietorship, 
blew the whistle that set it in motion. Under cover of the noise, 
Talbot managed to curse his fate with sufficient virulence, without out- 
wardly betraying his chagrin, and to make up his mind that it was his 
duty to introduce Miss Saunders, regardless of the consequences. As 
she was Sir Percy’s guest, he had, of course, no choice but to treat her 
with distinguished consideration. He got through with the ceremony 
of introduction rather more creditably than he had expected, and 
w^atched admiringly the exquisite affability with which Constance re- 
ceived the brusque approaches of the Beautiful Heathen. The train 
was taking its time, winding slowly through the brown Campagna, 
dotted with the tall, ruined arches of the Claudian aqueduct, and the 
glorious tints of the Roman autumn absorbed the mind and the vision 
and made the conversation lag. It was Cordelia wdio first broke the 
silence, and in a manner which fairly made Talbot jump. 

I am real glad to know you, Miss Douglas,” she said, in her 
abrupt fashion ; for, if you care to, I am sure you can be of great 
use to me in introducing the Emancipation Waist in this country.” 

I shall be pleased if I can be of use to you,” Constance answered, 
a little guardedly ; but what, pray, is the Emancipation Waist ?” 

Why, you don’t say you haven’t heard about the Emancij^ation 
Waist? Well, I must say, this is a slow country. The papers have 


THE OLD ADAM. 


595 


been full of it for more than two years. I scarcely ever take up an 
American paper but I find a notice or an advertisement of the Eman- 
cipation Waist.^^ 

Constance now suddenly perceived that the article concerning which 
she had thoughtlessly inquired belonged to a part of the feminine toilet 
which it would be embarrassing to discuss in the presence of M. de 
Saint-R6ault. 

It is the charm of this country to me that it is what you call 
slow-going/^ she said, in the hope of dismissing the Emancipation 
Waist: fear I am getting so acclimated to the Old World that I 

like it the better just because it is old.^^ 

Well, I shouldn’t wonder. Americans get awfully corrupted in 
these foreign parts,” Cordelia declared, cheerfblly, I guess I should 
get corrupted myself, if I allowed myself to settle down in an old hole 
of a palace and forget my mission in life.” 

^‘Ah! mademoiselle has a missiong,” ejaculated M. de Saint- R^ault, 
leaning forward with sudden interest. ^^It is permit to inqui-are 
wdiat is ze charactare of ze missiong of mademoiselle ?” 

Miss Saunders, who was inclined to take a supercilious view of 
all foreigners (she professed especially a hearty contempt for all that 
was French) gazed at the handsome Gaul for a moment in frank 
astonishment, as Balaam may have gazed at his ass when it opened its 
mouth and spake. She felt wofully tempted to mimic his manner of 
speech, and it cost her an effort to restrain herself. ^^Well,” she 
answered, with a laugh, the Emancipation Waist, — that is my mis- 
siong.” 

She gave a little French twist to her last word, just to try if he 
would notice it ; but apparently he was incapable of believing that she 
would make fun of him to his face. 

Ze Emancipation O’aist,” he said, looking at Miss Douglas, as if 
ill search of information : ^‘zat is, I zink, you say — ar^papare — a news- 
papare.” 

The Emancipation a newspaper !” cried Cordelia, with a hearty 
laugh : oh, no, sir ; it is an article of underwear for ladies.” 

An article of underware : vat is zat ?” he inquired, appealing again 
to Constance with his expressive eyes. 

“ It is a garment, count,” answered Mrs. Douglas in French, hasten- 
ing to her daughter’s rescue, — a garment like this.” 

She made a descriptive gesture with both hands down her waist, 
which conveyed an approximate idea of what she meant. 

I zank you,” said M. de Saint-R4ault. Mais a garment — ’ow 
you mague zat a missiong ?” 

“ Well, that is what most people don’t see,” Cordelia replied, with 
eager promptness : they don’t see that the welfare of the race is at 
stake in it, — that the health and strength and happiness of unborn 
generations depend upon the dress reform to which I mean to devote 
my life. It is the question whether civilization is to survive or be 
wrecked by woman’s fatal folly and man’s crime in admiring and en- 
couraging her folly.” 

She was quoting from the printed circular which she had composed, 


596 


THE OLD ADAM. 


explaining the disastrous effects of the female corset, proving that the 
corset-wearing nations were bound to succumb in the struggle for 
existence to the non-corset- wearing, and that, as the former were now 
the standard-bearers of civilization, the Emancipation Waist had really 
no less an object than the preservation of civilization. 

You know,^^ she continued, earnestly, with a direct appeal to the 
count, that the corset impedes the circulation of the blood and pre- 
vents you from taking a full, deep breath. It accordingly reduces your 
vitality some fifteen to twenty per cent, below par, according to the 
tightness with which you lace. And only think what that means ! 
It is just that little margin which determines success or failure, — 
survival or non-survival. And, as you know, it is not only the 
present generation that suffers: the reduced vitality in three distinct 
ways affects the generation still unborn or about to be born. Women 
who lace during the child-bearing period rob their infants of the 
capital of life and strength which is their due. They bring a puny 
child into the world instead of a lusty one; a predestined failure 
instead of a predestined success ; perhaps a vicious weakling, because 
vice is often but a form of disease 

Pardon me. Miss Saunders,’^ Mrs. Douglas interrupted, anxious 
lest the lady^s enthusiasm might carry her too far, but if yon would 
call upon us privately we should be happy to hear of your labors as 
a dress-reformer. Count de Saint-R^ault, you know, is not married, 
and can scarcely do anything for your cause ’’ 

Indeed he can, madam,^^ broke in the undaunted Cordelia. If 
the count will promise me never to admire or make love to any 
woman who wears a corset, he will do more for my cause than a dozen 
editorials.’^ 

‘‘ Mademoiselle is vary polite,” the count asserted, smiling. But 
so many ozzers would mague love — zat is what you say ? — to zose 
ladies, zay would not miss me.” 

Then show your heroism by making love to those without 
corsets,” cried Cordelia. 

Zat would be a test of my sincerity, en the Parisian re- 

sponded, with the expressive national shoulder-shrug. ^^But, made- 
moiselle, I razzer do ze ozzer. I razzer not mague love.” 

‘‘ Well, you can have your choice. But, mind you, I am going to 
keep watch of you.” 

‘‘You watch me? Vary well. But I am deeffeecult to watch, 
mademoiselle, extremely deeffeecult.” 

The magnificent ruin of Setie Basse, a villa which in imperial times 
must have seen some deep-hued Roman life, here attracted the attention 
of the travellers, and gave the conversation an archaeological turn. 
Cordelia said she guessed the Romans had a high old time, but asserted 
that in the matter of dress their women were far ahead of their modern 
sisters. Mrs. Douglas, fearing that this was introductory to another 
chapter on the Emancipation AV^aist, hastened to engage the count in 
an animated discussion concerning the comparative advantages of 
European and American life. In the mean while, the train rolled 
along at a leisurely rate over the Campagna, and shrieked a great deal 


THE OLD ADAM. 


697 


without visible provocation. The indefinable charm of this sombre 
historic plain, where the very grass under your feet sprouts with the 
rank life of the buried Caesars, turned the minds of Sir Percy ^s guests 
into a lower and gentler key. Some lapsed into silence because it 
seemed a sacrilege to disturb such rich and mellow peace by shrill and 
irrelevant speech. 

It was about eleven o’clock when the train began to climb the little 
declivity, overgrown with corn and olives, upon which Frascati is situ- 
ated, and a few minutes later it steamed into the station. Sir Percy, 
blowing his whistle (though it was hard to tell why), ordered the doors 
to be opened, and the company gathered about him, expressing their 
delight at the weather, the railroad-journey, the views, and the perfec- 
tion of his arrangements. And it was a fact that every possible want 
had been anticipated, and every contingency foreseen. Sir Percy was 
a master in his attention to detail, and had a well-earned reputation 
as an organizer of excursions. Twenty-five frowzy but safe-looking 
donkeys were in waiting, each labelled with the name of the lady for 
whom it was destined, and some of the excursionists who knew their 
host’s peculiarities pretended to look also for labels indicating the gen- 
tlemen who were to be attached to each as entertainers and escorts. 
Being left to the caprice of natural selection, these creatures proceeded 
to illustrate that cruel and ungenerous law in strict accordance with 
Darwin. No less than six of them thronged about Miss Douglas, con- 
tending for the honor of assisting her into the saddle, while there was 
a corresponding number of ladies who had to depend upon the gal- 
lantry of the donkey-drivers. Sir Percy managed, however, by a few 
nods and becks and whispered directions to distribute the eager cava- 
liers, though in some cases not exactly to their satisfaction. M. de 
Saint-R6ault, who was in this respect a radiant exception, was left in 
charge of Miss Douglas ; but Talbot, whose feelings were ruthlessly 
trampled upon, found himself attached to Miss Saunders and her cousin 
Burroughs, both of whom were equally obnoxious to him. Two Eng- 
lish secretaries of legation (one of whom had earned notoriety by 
being ejected from the Pope’s reception on account of his refusal to 
kneel) were taken in tow by Miss Bush and Miss Bromfield, two Ro- 
manized American damsels who dabbled in the arts and excelled in 
fine talk. The famous German historian Montrovius, who looked 
like a bearded Apollo grown old, offered his distinguished company to 
Lady Mulgrave, who was lying with her yacht and her husband at 
Civita Vecchia, while Lord Mulgrave devoted himself to patronizing 
the novelist Mrs. Pearl Shinn, in whose career he promised to interest 
himself on her return to England. Sir Percy attached himself to no 
one, as his supervision was everywhere needed. 

It was a pretty sight, — the long, many-colored procession climbing, 
single file, the steep slope that leads from the town to the Villa Aldo- 
brandini, which Sir Percy had hired from Prince Borghese for the occa- 
sion. The skies overhead were radiantly blue at the zenith, but shaded 
downward into soft golden tints with hazy suggestions of Indian sum- 
mer. There was a mellow autumnal tone in the sunshine, and the 
dense, dark masses of the stone-pines traced themselves in a golden 


598 


THE OLD ADAM. 


halo against the horizon. -It seemed a glorious thing to live; and the 
brief space of years that has been granted us, midway between the 
thronging generations of the unborn and the dead, was a rich boon, 
— an unalloyed blessing. All the harassing cares which in the New 
World complicate the problem of existence, making us old before our 
time, seemed remoter than the age of the Pharaohs, and more unreal 
than the Arabian Nights.^^ The young girls laughed with hearty 
abandon as they rode past the sombre villas that brood over untold 
tragedies. Cordelia, after having exasperated Talbot by her puns and 
irreverent talk, broke off a twig of a young olive-tree and presented 
it to him with the request that he follow the example of Noah’s dove. 

What did she do?” he asked, sullenly. 

She was gone for eight days,” was the cheerful reply. 

He was about to take the hint and seek more congenial company, 
but she peremptorily called him back. 

Look here, Georgie Talbot,” she said, I am aware you don’t like 
me, but that doesn’t trouble me a bit. I like you, and that’s enough. 
You are a very nice boy, though you are not always well-behaved. 
Now, you are dying to tell me that you are in love with Miss Douglas, 
but you are a little bashful because Nat Burroughs is hanging about 
me. — Now, Nat, you trot on ahead while Georgie tells me all about his 
unhappy love-affair.” 

Burroughs, without deigning to reply, strolled off among the cy- 
presses that skirted the road, and Talbot, hardly knowing what to 
answer, kicked the stones angrily out of the path, and felt inclined to 
follow his example. 

Why must you always treat me as if I were a child ?” he asked, 
blushing to the tips of his ears. 

I surely don’t treat you as a child when I ask you about your 
love-affairs.” 

Yes, you do.” 

Well, Georgie, you are a child. You are one of the most charm- 
ingly unsophisticated and inexperienced boys I have ever known. 
Any woman who thought it w^orth while could make you fall in love 
with her.” 

Suppose you try.” 

I ? Why, my dear boy, I have other things to do. I am not 
here for sentimental purposes. And, if you’ll excuse me, if I ever go 
hunting I shall go for bigger game.” 

I like your insolence, at least.” 

^^No, you don’t. But you will by and by. You know, all my 
friends, and my enemies too, for that matter, make a point of telling 
me their love-affairs. It is my fate to be a depository and trust-com- 
pany for other people’s heart-secrets.” 

I should think you would rebel.” 

Oh, no ; I rather like it. It is a diversion among my more 
serious pursuits. Do you know, I am very fond of gentlemen? I 
don’t know what I should do without them. They are so nice and 
harmless and jolly, and then they dress so well. I assure you, I posi- 
tively dote on them, — that is, of course, within their proper sphere.” 


THE OLD ADAM. 


599 


Talbot had to laugh, in spite of his vexation, at this characteriza- 
tion of his sex, and he began to understand why Sir Percy found 
Cordelia such good company. 

You ought to tell that to Sir Percy,^^ he said. 

Sir Percy ? Oh, no ! I am like Shakespeare in that respect, — 
I never repeat. But since you speak of Mr. Percy, isn’t he a nice old 
gentleman ? I should never have believed that 1 could like an Eng- 
lishman so much.” 

^^If he heard you call him an old gentleman it would be the end 
of his liking for you.” 

Is that so ? But he is as bald on the top of his head as a Lim- 
burger cheese.” 

Hush ! There he is.” 

Sir Percy, who was a famous pedestrian, came stalking along with 
an Alpen-stock in his hand, mopping his forehead with a large yellow 
silk handkerchief. 

Permit me — aw — to call your attention — aw — to this view,” he 
exclaimed, sweeping with his stick the line of the horizon. 

Yes, it is very fine,” answered Miss Saunders, indifferently. 

You observe — aw — the villa over there, — how grandly it — aw 
— rises against the sky ?” 

Yes, quite grandly.” 

That is the Villa Torlonia : rather bad style, you know. But 
— aw — any pile of masonry — aw — against such a background would 
— ^aw — be impressive.” 

If I could live in a villa like that, I should want to live forever,” 
remarked Talbot. 

You mean if you could have the choice of your companion for 
eternity,” ejaculated Cordelia. ‘^Now, Georgie, beware, or you’ll let 
the cat out of the bag before you know it. — Do you know, Mr. Percy,” 
she went on, turning to the baronet, this foolish boy has been falling 
in love, and he tells me he is going to jump from the dome of St. 
Peter’s if the lady refuses him ?” 

‘‘Why, my dear fellow !” cried Sir Percy, in genuine alarm. “I 
hope you are not serious ?” 

“ Miss Saunders is romancing. Sir Percy,” said Talbot, quietly. 
“ She has been trying to extract a confession from me which I have 
declined to make.” 

“Oh, I shall have it yet,” said Cordelia, laughing. 

Half an hour’s ride over stony paths, under the crowns of ilexes 
and olive-trees, brought the merry procession to the gate of the Villa 
Aldobrandini, which swung open upon its grating hinges to receive 
them. The villa, whose beauty consists more in its size than its archi- 
tectural design, rises magnificently from a succession of terraces against 
a background of ilex and sombre-hued shrubbery, its great, dingy, 
weather-beaten front looking down upon a riotous wilderness of vege- 
tation. There are stately ilex avenues, choked up with weeds and end- 
ing in a jungle of tangled vines ; there are long, humid tunnels under 
the terraces, where green and brown lizards slip over the dilapidated 
pavement; there are ridiculous rococo statues of wood and marble, the 


600 


THE OLD ADAM. 


former fast decaying, the latter reclaimed by Nature, who has kindly 
clothed them in garments of green ; there is an artificial cataract, descend- 
ing in a series of cascades from one mossy stone basin into another, and 
filling the air with its gentle, unceasing murmur; there are damp, dusky 
arbors with marble seats, cracked and weather-stained, whose dense, 
inscrutable privacy is haunted with the amorous whispers of stately 
ecclesiastical ghosts. But, in spite of neglect and decay and the fan- 
tastic rococo taste which everywhere crops out, there is an indescribable 
grandeur over it all, — an august historic air, as if each century that 
passed over the palace had left its dark deposits of human experience 
for you to decipher. 

After having dismounted from the donkeys. Sir Percy^s guests 
scattered through the spacious halls of the villa, which gave an uncom- 
fortable resonance to their voices and steps, inspected the conven- 
tional mythological frescos of Cav^ d^Arpino, and speculated upon the 
character of the people and the life which these lofty walls once 
enclosed. 

They lived spaciously, those ecclesiastical princes of the Renais- 
sance,^^ remarked Talbot, who had managed to constitute himself Miss 
Douglas’s cicerone through the villa. Oh, how I envy them, — those 
fine, cynical, unscrupulous epicures !” 

‘^And why do you envy them?” she asked, marvelling a little at 
the ardor of his speech. 

^^Oh,” he exclaimed, tossing his head recklessly, I envy them 
because they had red blood in their veins and were not afraid if the 
world knew it. They lived in a dagger-and-poison atmosphere, and 
carried gayly their lives in their hands, armed to the teeth for defence 
and oftence, — beautiful, sleek, dangerous beasts of prey, with velvet 
paws ; graceful and polished ; delighting with an exquisite delight in 
art and poetry ; connoisseurs and patrons of sculptors, painters, and 
archaeologists ; splendid, warm-blooded personages, that moved through 
life with pomp and circumstance and left long shining trails behind 
them.” 

Constance, perceiving the daring light in the young artist’s eyes 
as he spoke, grew a trifle uneasy. She had never suspected such a 
positive personality in this small and rather dainty man, whose adora- 
tion of her she had been at pains to repress. She liked well enough 
to have him adore her, but it must be respectfully and discreetly, and 
without annoying demonstrations. She wished now that somebody 
would come and relieve her of the necessity of keeping him within 
bounds. 

‘‘I don’t envy those unscrupulous prelates,” she said, rather aim- 
lessly : ‘‘ I should have been afraid of them.” 

“So should I, perhaps,” Talbot exclaimed, eagerly; “but I should 
have enjoyed being afraid of them. Can’t you see them sit out on the 
balcony there, around that cracked marble table, sipping their wine, and 
discussing, with bright predatory smiles, their villanous ecclesiastical 
politics, through which ran the unscrupulous love-intrigue like a red 
thread gleaming, by chance, through the tangle of silver and gold? 
They ruled the world, those cunning scarlet-robed princes of the Church. 


THE OLD ADAM. 


601 


What wonder that (bachelors though they were) they required palaces 
covering a couple of acres to shelter their comprehensive households, 
and small armies of attendants to minister to their complicated wants? 
One cannot help respecting a man who stalks into life with such 
magnificent demands. And what wretched little insignificant pygmies 
are we not, compared with them, content, as we are, if we can only gain 
a tolerable livelihood and sneak through existence without harming 
anybody or being harmed 

Miss Douglas gazed up at the walls of the stately apartment — the 
appariimento nobile of the villa — in which they were standing, and 
suddenly discovered in Talbot’s words the most illuminative commen- 
tary. She forgot her anxiety and began to enjoy his impulsive elo- 
quence. The villa acquired a definite and highly enjoyable character 
to her, and her fine eyes lighted up with an unwonted animation. 

Why, Mr. Talbot,” she ejaculated, I can’t believe you are an 
American. Don’t you know all that is the rankest heresy in our great 
republic ?” 

Oh, yes, I know it ! I know it ! But, Miss Douglas, you would 
scarcely believe it, but I have a grudge against Fate, — or rather a hun- 
dred thousand grudges. It was first a cruel joke to make a man like 
me an American ; then I ought to have been born in the sixteenth 
century instead of the nineteenth. Oh, how I hate this pale, well-- 
bred, self-restrained age ! I should have been content to wake up some 
fine morning with a dagger in my throat, if I only could have lived 
before dying. Now I shall go to my grave a miserable, virtuous, self- 
restrained dauber, and no one will ever suspect how red the blood was 
that ran in my veins.” 

It will be your own fault if you do not show us,” Constance re- 
marked, unguardedly, and she repented of her words before they were 
out of her mouth. 

Ah, no. Miss Douglas, it will be your fault,” he murmured, in a 
low voice, through which the deep passion trembled : you know you 
can do with me what you like. Since I have seen you, I revolve like 
a helpless satellite about you and receive only my light and life from 
your countenance.” 

There was a touching humility and fervor in his voice which 
suddenly brought the tears into Constance’s eyes. She pitied him so 
profoundly, and yet could never think of giving her own stately and 
complex self into his keeping. 

Mr. Talbot,” she said, with a sweet kindliness which struck a 
chill to her adorer’s heart, I am sorry that you should entertain this 
sort of feeling for me, and I pray you to do what you can to rid your- 
self of it. You know I am older than you, and that in itself ought 
to be enough to put all such thoughts out of your head.” 

And you are taller than I am, and prouder than I am, and richer 
than I am,” Talbot muttered, smiling bitterly ; but I cannot help 
loving you, any more than I can help breatliing. You may think that 
it is mere wild foolish talk, when I say that I should die if I were to 
be deprived of the sight of you. But I feel it in the bottom of my 
soul that life is impossible to me, away from you.” 


602 


THE OLD ADAM. 


They had been alone for some time in the vast room, the rest of the 
company having ascended to the upper floors. But now suddenly a 
door opened immediately in front of the young lady, and she found 
herself face to face with Nathaniel Burroughs. He remained standing 
on the threshold, staring.at her with a strange, fixed gaze. 

I was looking for Delia,^^ he said, dismally. 

I don’t know her,” answered Constance, to whom the remark 
apparently had been addressed. 

I saw you talking with her in the cars,” Burroughs insisted. 

^^Oh, you mean Miss Saunders, perhaps. I have not seen her 
recently.” ' 

There was a tone of dismissal in the words, but Burroughs’s ears 
were not trained to interpret fleeting intonations. He continued to stare 
ut Constance, as if he had something to say to her, but did not know 
how- to say it. Talbot, who saw in his conduct mere rude importunity, 
was determined not to come to his assistance, and after an awkward 
pause of two or three minutes, during which he had made a pretence 
of studying the frescos, Cordelia’s cousin sauntered away through the 
resonant corridors, looking back over his shoulder with a gaze full of 
distress and vague agitation. He was scarcely beyond earshot, when 
Constance turned to Talbot, and in a troubled voice asked, — 

Who is that terrible' man ?” 

He is a recent convert to Catholicism, and cousin to the Emanci- 
pation Waist,” replied Talbot, dryly. 

But what an extraordinary face he has !” 

Do you find it extraordinary ? I find it only vulgar.” 

No, it is crude, but not vulgar. But those eyes, — there is a world 
of trouble in them.” 

Yes, his lack of breeding is sure to give him trouble.” 

^^No, Mr. Talbot, lack of breeding does not give that kind of 
trouble.” 

Perhaps.” 

That man has suffered.” 

Very likely. Some Indiana girl may have jilted him. I don’t 
blame her if she did.” 

Well, I do. But I will not say anything more about him, since 
I see you dislike him.” 

They moved through the corridor tow^ard the great outside portone 
as they spoke, and met Sir Percy, Herr Montrovius, and Mrs. Pearl 
Shinn descending with loud-voiced speech and laughter from the floor 
above. Count de Saint-Il6ault was acting as escort to the archaeologi- 
cal Miss Bush, who was gotten up like a pre-Raphaelite saint and turned 
her spiritual face up to him with an air which was quite devotional. 
The count, on the other hand, walked superbly erect, and did not bend 
over her with that air of gallant solicitude which he always exhibited 
toward Constance. The moment the latter came into view he excused 
himself from Miss Bush, who blushed excitedly, as he made her his 
grand obeisance ; but she could not help remarking the striking change 
in his manner as he approached Miss Douglas, and drawing her infer- 
ences accordingly. Democratic though she was (or imagined that she 


THE OLD ADAM, 


603 


was), she scarcely regarded her small and vivacious countryman Tal- 
bot, who made haste to join her, as a substitute for so magnificent a per- 
sonage as the Count de Saint-R4ault. 

Ah, mademoiselle,’^ exclaimed the count, with a delightful sense 
of relief, in his native tongue, I have been hungering and thirsting 
for your presence like a traveller in the desert.” 

M. le Comte,” answered Constance, with her sweet, tranquil smile, 
that means in English, I am glad to see you.” 

No, mademoiselle, it means more. It means I am enchanted — I 
am enraptured to see you. I can see and I care to see nothing but you.” 

That is very delightful, count, that I am so essential to your well- 
being. But perhaps you will pardon me if I do not entirely recipro- 
cate your sentiments. I have also an ambition to explore this charm- 
ing old villa, and, if you will join me, we will take a walk in the 
gardens.” 

You make me very happy, mademoiselle.” 

You are extremely amiable, count.” 

This was the style of conversation which had been habitual between 
these two during the year of their acquaintance. They talked lightly, 
skimming over the surface of things, and never touching upon deeper 
topics. It was quite improper, according to the count’s creed, to talk 
seriously with women. He always paid Constance the most extrava- 
gant compliments, and she, strange to say, did not resent them. The 
man was such an embodiment of good breeding — so distinctly the re- 
sult of a high civilization, and one wholly different from the one from 
which she had sprung — that she found herself admiring when she 
might have been expected to criticise. In the first place, his wholly 
chivalrous attitude toward her sex pleased her, and, in the second place, 
she was not above being impressed by his rank, and the mysteriousness 
of the diplomatic mission with which he was confidently credited. He 
had the courage to remain faithful to the ancien r^gime^ which in those 
days was identified with the name of the Count de Chambord, and to 
forego all chances of preferment in the army rather than ingratiate him- 
self with the authorities of the republic. It was understood that his 
labors in Rome, of whatever nature they were, were in the interest of 
the Bourbon cause. There was in all this something which appealed 
to her sense of romance and invested the count with a kind of poetic 
halo. She was by no means wildly in love with him, — chiefly, she 
reasoned, because it was not in her nature to be wildly anything. Her 
temperament and character lay along the middle octaves, in which there 
was a wealth of sweet and tranquil melody, but did not range high into 
the treble or deep into the base. That was, at all events, the analysis 
of those who knew her best. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A Di:jEUNER 1 LA FOURCIIETTH. 

The gardens of the Villa Aldobrandini are large enough to afford 
privacy for an army of lovers. Talbot walked about as in a dream 


604 


THE OLD ADAM. 


(though by no means a happy one) and imagined that he had strolled 
unawares into a cliapter of Boccaccio’s Decameron. Only he had, 
somehow, got himself entangled with the wrong lady and was power- 
less to rectify the mistake. Miss Bush found him extremely unrespon- 
sive to her fine speeches and pre-Baphaelite attitudes, and her hushed 
and gentle voice wasted itself in unappreciated efforts. It is a fact 
that a fine talker never likes to meet another of his own species, which 
circumstance may account for the young man’s suppressed irritability 
and the mute maledictions which he hurled against the smiling sky. 
It cheapened horribly his outburst about the Renaissance ecclesiastics 
to think that this thin, ridiculous girl had hit upon something that 
sounded quite similar. He found her affected, and she found him dis- 
agreeable; but they clung to each other for about half an hour, ex- 
ploring arbors whose delightful privacy invited quite different senti- 
ments, losing themselv^es in luxuriant jungles of vines and shrub- 
bery, and viewing from the broad terraces the glorious panorama of the* 
Sabine Mountains bathed in golden light, the dark and silent Campagna, 
and in the distance the flashing domes of the Eternal City. Miss Bush 
had just delivered a neat little rhapsody on the mellow richness of the 
Italian sunlight, and had succeeded in exasperating her companion 
until he felt as if he could strangle her, when, to their unutterable 
astonishment, they surprised Sir Percy and Miss Saunders in an in- 
teresting tUe-di-Ute, The baronet was seated on the edge of a cracked 
marble basin, in the middle of which a moss-grown Triton vainly in- 
flated his cheeks, and Cordelia, who had apparently been sitting at his 
side, had risen, and was standing in front of him with an expression on 
her face which seemed a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. 
She was frankly delighted at the sight of Talbot and Miss Bush, and 
started toward them with an eagerness which took small account of 
etiquette. 

Now, Georgie,” she cried, with a sudden relaxation of her serious- 
ness, this will never do. AVhat do you mean by going back on me in 
this style? And me looking for you high and low while you go off 
flirting with another girl !” 

If she could have known how distasteful this style of banter was to 
him, how in the present moment he positively writhed under it, she 
would perhaps have had pity on him. But it was not her habit to 
trouble herself about the sentiments of her victims. 

I always knew you were a heartless flirt, Georgie,” she went on, 
mercilessly, and of course I ought to have expected that you would 
trifle with my affections. But this poor, unguarded creature here, — I 
couldn’t defend it before my own conscience if I didn’t warn her and 
let her know what sort of man you are.” 

Miss Cordelia pronounced this serious indictment with a smiling 
face and a light and breezy manner which puzzled Miss Bush and Sir 
Percy exceedingly. They were both too unacquainted with our AVestern 
humor to understand that this was meant as badinage and had no 
serious import whatever. The situation was getting absolutely unbear- 
able, when Miss Bush unexpectedly recovered her dignity, and said, 
with a constrained laugh, — 


THE OLD ADAM, 605 

Oh, thank you very much, Miss Saunders, but your warning, I 
assure you, is quite superfluous/^ 

Why, Talbot,^^ observed Sir Percy, also with an air of constraint, 
and wiped his forehead energetically, who would have thought — aw 
— who would have fancied — don’t you know — that you were such a 
gay Lothario ?” 

Good gracious, Mr. Percy !” Cordelia burst out, with a laugh 
which rang with sharp reverberation against the wails of the villa, — 
why, you English people, you are awfully funny.” 

‘‘ Well,” rejoined Sir Percy, with a visible effort to appear at his 
ease, that is exactly — aw — that is — don’t you know ? — what we think 
of you. You are, as you might say, quite too awfully funny.” 

And you think I am serious in hauling Talbot over the coals for 
jilting me?” 

Well, really, you know — aw — it is hard to know when Ameri- 
cans are serious and when they are not. They do things, you know, 
that we would never think of doing.” 

Sir Percy appealed confidently to Miss Bush for confirmation of 
this judgment, quite forgetting that she was herself an American, 
though a Europeanized one. 

I have been so long away from America, you know,” she re- 
sponded, with embarrassment ; so I really couldn’t tell.” 

On general principles,” affirmed Cordelia, with a fresh burst of 
hilarity, you may take it for granted that we are never serious. A 
real American — that is, I mean, a Western American — would joke at 
his mother-in-law’s funeral.” 

Now, really, you don’t say so !” exclaimed Sir Percy, guilelessly, — 
at which Cordelia was so overcome with laughter that she came within 
an ace of seating herself in his lap. Whether he objected to such 
familiarity or became suddenly conscious of his duties to the rest of 
the company is difficult to conjecture ; but he arose with some abrupt- 
ness, shook the legs of his trousers, and remarked, — 

“ You will excuse me, ladies; it is time for me to stir up the ser- 
vants, as — aw — they are capable of forgetting that luncheon is to be 
served at one.” 

He lifted his hat, and descended the long flight of slippery green 
stairs along the artificial water-fall. 

I suppose,” observed Talbot, glancing at Miss Bush, that it is in 
order for us to follow. But take care ; the stairs are very slippery. 
You had better take my arm.” 

His animosity to Cordelia had changed his feeling for Miss Bush 
to one of comparative cordiality. He now found her clear-cut, saintly 
face, set in its frame of pale-golden hair, quite pictorially effective. 
She seemed herself conscious of a certain Old-English quaintness in 
her wistful gaze and willowy slenderness ; for she dressed like one of 
Rossetti’s or Burne-Jones’s allegorical maidens who sit under apple-trees, 
or walk symbolically up- or down-stairs, or merely stand in ‘^stained- 
glass attitudes” against a golden background. 

At one o’clock a melodious bugle-call summoned the company to 
luncheon in the great dining-hall of the villa. Sir Percy had discov- 

VoL. XLI.— 39 


606 


THE OLD ADAM. 


ered that there was a mediseval precedent for this picturesque perform- 
ance; but, whether there was or not, it imparted a flavor of old-time 
romance to the f^st which was relished by all. It had been deter- 
mined for sanitary reasons to serve the luncheon in-doors, as the lateness 
of the season made a fete champHre a little hazardous. Ponderous 
oaken chairs, superbly carved, but of defective upholstery, had been 
gathered together from all the rooms of the villa, and a miscellaneous 
assortment of settees, stands, t^ie-d-t^tes, and tables, some straight- legged 
and classical, some spindle-legged and frivolous d la Pompadour, gave 
one, at first sight, the imjH’ession that there was going to be an auction 
of furniture. To remove the sepulchral chill which is apt to strike 
one on entering the vast, resonant apartments of an Italian villa. Sir 
Percy had ordered a fire of logs to be laid on the long-unused hearth ; 
and the flames, as they leaped up the wide-throated chimney, flashed 
and danced in the polished surfaces of precious glass and silver. 
Great banks of white, red, and yellow roses in dishes of Venetian glass 
adorned the table and filled the room with a delicate fragrance. Cardi- 
nal Aldobrandini’s ghost, if it were permitted to revisit the glimpses 
of the moon, would have wondered what the world was coming to. 

As it was to be a dejednerd la fourchette^ consisting of cold dishes, 
the gentlemen made haste to capture tables and chairs and to dispose 
themselves in congenial groups with the ladies wdiom policy or in- 
clination recommended to their attention. Miss Douglas had found 
her place in a rococo t^te-d-tete with tarnished gilding and upholstered 
in ancient embroidered brocade ; and facing her, on the other side, sat 
Count de Saint-Reault, bending forward in an attitude of respectful 
expectancy, and receiving every word that she uttered as if it were a 
marvel of wisdom and brilliancy. If he had been less robust and 
masculine, this seeming humility in the presence of a beautiful woman 
would not have recommended him to Miss Constance’s favor; but in 
one so well-born and dignified it appeared to her almost touching. She 
had never in her life received homage that seemed so delicate, so unob- 
trusive, and so thoroughly acceptable. 

There was a small army of waiters, and the gentlemen were not 
required to make foraging expeditions in search of oysters or lobster 
salad or ice-cream. Every want was promptly discovered by the vigi- 
lant servitors, and gratified before it was uttered. It was Sir Percy’s 
pride that his servants were better trained than any in England. And 
he carried his entire household with him wdierever he went, ostensibly 
for the reason that he could not put up with the impudence and inef- 
ficiency of foreign servants. 

The champagne-corks gave a resonance like pistol-shots under the 
wide ceiling, and even innocent sherry-bottles seemed determined to 
rival them in noise. There was a lively clinking of glasses, animated 
conversation, accented by occasional little screams of laughter, and a 
subdued clatter of knives and forks through the spacious refectory. 
All was so harmonious, so civilized. And yet there was one jarring 
note; but there was no one who discovered it except Constance. While 
she sat exchanging winged platitudes with the count, uttered with a 
charming subdued vivacity, she was conscious of a pair of eyes-resting 


THE OLD ADAM. 


607 


upon her with earnest intentness. Slie did not know at first to whom 
this gaze belonged, but a vague uneasiness took possession of lier : she 
felt as if some strange cobwebby substance were closing about her, and 
finally she felt compelled to turn around. 

Might I trouble you to face the other way, count she said : 
the light troubles me a little.^^ 

Ah, mademoiselle, I am entirely at your service,’’ responded the 
Frenchman, rising, and wheeling the Ute-a-Ute about; ^‘though you 
will pardon me for saying that you are not one of those ladies who 
need fear the light.” 

Ah, Monsieur le Comte, but I court it no longer. To a complex- 
ion past twenty, the sunlight is always trying.” 

Yours, if you will permit me to make so personal a remark, could 
triumphantly challenge the sun, the moon, and all the stars together.” 

It woukl have been impossible to Constance to account for the fact 
that this airy gallantry, which she had always received and found to be 
quite in order, suddenly jarred on her. It seemed just a trifle stale and 
artificial. She presently associated her curious change of feeling with 
the discovery that it was her recent antipathy, Nathaniel Burroughs, 
whose grave, dark-brown gaze had penetrated her consciousness through 
the back of her head. He was standing leaning up against the wall, 
with a plate in his hand, upon which there was a slice of bread and a 
piece of cheese. He looked inexpressibly forlorn and deserted, and yet 
not an object of pity ; for the glance which now and then he let range 
over the company was full of scorn and disgust. His ragged black 
beard, which was bleached to a reddish brown at the ends and bristled 
toward all the points of the compass, seemed a declaration of war against 
the over-refinement expressed in the studied coiffures and cai*eful toilets 
of these sons and daughters of an effete civilization. His ill-cut clothes 
of rusty broadcloth were also so defiantly unfashionable as to have 
the force of a sermon. And yet the man was not withal lacking in 
dignity ; for there was something in the tremendous earnestness of his 
face — a complete forgetfulness of self, perhaps — which made the rude- 
ness of his manner not only pardonable but impressive. “ I fear,” 
said Constance, when she had for fifteen minutes vainly endeavored to 
shake off the discomfort which Burroughs’s gaze caused her, that I 
was very rude to that strange man wdio stands there under the dancing 
Flora. Perhaps you would have the kindness, count, to bring him up 
to me, so that I may make amends for my delinquencies.” 

The count, as one who cheerfully gives out of his abundance, rose 
with alacrity and hastened toward the gaunt Westerner. He felt him- 
self so secure in Constance’s favor that he could afford to be generous 
and give a hungry beggar a chance to pick up a few crumbs from his 
table. It was interesting to observe the bow of extreme courtesy with 
which he introduced himself to Burroughs and delivered in defective 
English his message. ^^Mademoiselle Douglaas,” he said, with his 
well-bred, conventional smile, ^‘she desi-are ze plaisir of Monsieur 
Burroughs companee for one moment. She send me to prefare ze 
request that Monsieur Burroughs confare upon her ze conversation of 
one moment.” 


608 


THE OLD ADAM. 


There flashed into Burroughs’s eyes a frank astonishment, as of one 
who gazes upon a new zoological specimen ; but it was but a momentary 
gleam, which presently gave way to his wonted seriousness. 

Tell her that I will come,” he answered, without responding to 
any of the Frenchman’s polite overtures. 

Barbare murmured the latter under his breath, as, after a second 
bow, he returned to render an account of his mission. 

‘^But, mademoiselle,”, he said, in a tone of kindly remonstrance, 
relapsing with delightful ease into his mother-tongue, you have a too 
good heart. That man, mademoiselle, is lonely because he deserves to 
be lonely. He is a son of the prairie. He is too uncivilized for any 
one to endure his company.” 

Perhaps ; but it does one good occasionally,” Constance answered, 
to come in contact with nature. I have a suspicion, sometimes, that 
we are very heartless in our judgments, we who call ourselves civilized. 
Is it not shallow to judge a man by the cut of his coat only, or the cut 
of his beard, or the cut of his manners ?” 

Mais le style, c’est Phomme!^^ the count exclaimed, with unexpected 
animation : the manner is the man !” 

Not always,” she replied, sweetly : I have known men whose 
manners misrepresented them.” 

And I,” he promptly rejoined, have known one woman whose 
manner was so enchanting that I hope it does not misrepresent her.” 

Burroughs had, in the mean while, put away his plate, and his tall, 
gaunt figure was seen approaching. 

know he is your countryman,” said the Gaul, contemplating him 
with a superb disdain ; but tell me, what do you think he looks 
like?” ^ 

imagine he looks a trifle like St. John the Baptist. I could 
imagine him crying veiy impressively in the wilderness.” 

Perhaps; but to me he looks like an orang-outang in broad- 
cloth.” 

Ah, you are very cruel.” 

You are disrespectful to the saint.” 

And you are disrespectful to the orang-outang.” 

Ahy there ! you are more cruel than I,” cried the count, with an 
amused laugh. I implied that the saint might not be flattered by the 
comparison ; but you even insinuate that it would be uncomplimentary 
to the ape.” 

Constance, who had intended to say something quite different from 
what she did, became a trifle confused, and began to ))ick at the salad 
on her plate to hide her blushes. She presently handed it to tlie count, 
who again passed it to a waiter. At this moment Burroughs presented 
himself, and at her request dropped into the seat in the tUe-a4Ue just 
vacated by the count. The latter, whom the unintentional joke had 
put in excellent humor, sent her a parting glance full of cheerful con- 
fidence and worshipful homage. 

I have not had the pleasure of an introduction to you, Mr. Bur- 
roughs,” she began, in her gentle voice, and with a manner which was 
music and fragrance and all that is fair and sweet in superlative per- 


THE OLD ADAM. 


609 


fectioii, but I took the liberty of sending for you, because I feared 
that at our meeting an hour ago I had unintentionally offended you/^ 

The exquisite consideration implied in this speech did not fail of 
its effect upon Burroughs ; and he was about to reply in a conciliatory 
tone, when suddenly his conscience smote him, and he remembered how 
the devil came to St. Anthony in the shape of a beautiful woman. Re- 
finement, culture, all that makes life fair and agreeable, were to him 
snares of the Evil One, invented for the purpose of entrapping the un- 
wary soul to eternal perdition. 

Madam, he said, fixing his great, earnest eyes upon her, so that 
there was no escape from them, it don’t make no difference.” 

It may not matter to you,” she answered, with the same sweet 
directness, but to me it matters much if I have hurt any one’s 
feelings.” 

“ As long as you have not hurt their immortal souls, it is of no 
consequence.” 

His voice, which was deep and sonorous, vibrated through her, and 
a light shiver ran through her frame. 

Permit me to differ with you,” she said, with animation. I do 
not flatter myself that I have it in my power to hurt anybody’s soul ; 
but many heart-burnings and much misery could be avoided if men 
and women in daily intercourse were more considerate of each other’s 
feelings.” 

He moved suddenly to the edge of the Ute-a4Ue, whose insidious 
softness probably suggested some connection with the arch-enemy, and 
sat for a moment in silence. 

Madam,” he asked, abruptly, and with the same penetrating earn- 
estness, what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose 
his soul ?” 

‘‘But no man need lose his soul by being polite.” 

“ The world is rotten,” he w^ent on, after another pause, “ and rotten 
things sometimes shine in the dark. What you call politeness is the 
shine of the world’s rottenness in the darkness of ‘spiritual death.” 

“ Ah, you are quite a pessimist,” she ejaculated, with forced light- 
ness, but a kind of internal tremulousness which she found it hard to 
control threatened every minute to betray itself in her voice. 

“ I don’t know what that is,” he replied, bluntly. “ I am a Chris- 
tian, and don’t want to be nothing else.” 

There was a visible effort to speak correctly in all he said, and a 
consequent suggestion that grammatical speech did not come naturally 
to him. He lapsed into the double negative, and sometimes repeated 
himself to correct it. 

There was another pause, during which she again felt her inter- 
locutor’s eyes resting upon her. Their expression was, at first, one 
of solemn scrutiny, which gradually changed into interest and gloomy 
satisfaction. 

“ I hear you have come to Rome to be consecrated for the priest- 
hood,” she said, in order to break the uncomfortable spell. 

“ Yes,” he answered ; “ but I am unworthy, and I hesitate.” 

“ I suppose you intend to return to the United States to preach?” . 


610 


THE OLD ADAM. 


I don’t know. First I intend to find peace.” 

There was something desperately restless and struggling in the 
glance he sent her, and she felt a curious stirring of sympathy within 
her. She began to find Nathaniel Burroughs interesting. 

And you think peace is to be found in Rome ?” she said, with a 
vague smile. 

There is no peace in Satan’s clutches,” he burst out, vehemently. 

I am struggling to get out of them. That’s why I came to Rome.” 

She was at a loss to know what to answer to such a speech. No 
one had ever addressed her in such a tone before. The picture of Bur- 
roughs struggling in Satan’s clutches rose with painful vividness in her 
fancy, and she looked helplessly about the room, in the hope that some 
one would come to his rescue. She, too, was getting into deep waters, 
and, although she had a dim desire to drift on with the current, she did 
not trust her skill as a swimmer. As it happened, Cordelia, who had 
grown tired of the secretary of the English Legation, had risen uncere- 
moniously and was looking about for a more agreeable companion. 
Meeting Constance’s wandering gaze, she interpreted it to mean that 
her cousin was boring her, and resolved to take j>ity on her affliction. 
With the cheeriest kind of nod to the astounded secretary, she turned 
her back on him and walked to the window where Burroughs sat 
staring at the floor and cracking his finger-joints in agitated silence. 

Well, I do declare, you seem to be having a jolly time!” she ex- 
claimed. I suppose Nat has been telling you what a bad lot he was 
before he got religion. You mustn’t mind that, you know. He re- 
gards it, on the whole, as a recommendation.” 

Delia,” began Burroughs, with terrible gravity, and struggling to 
control his wrath, if God did not help me, I am afraid — I am afraid 
I might some day do you harm.” 

It was curious talk, this, in the midst of a gay Renaissance banquet- 
ing-hall, resounding with clinking of glasses and merry jests and laugh- 
ter. Constance was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable, and yet 
from a vague sympathy for Burroughs could not abandon him to the 
tender mercies of his uncongenial cousin. 

‘^Nat,” the fair pagan cried, wholly unaffected by his anger, ‘^you 
know perfectly well you are romancing. You know perfectly well that 
you never were as bad as you say you are.” 

I have never been as bad as you and brazenly bragged of my un- 
belief,” he replied, with low, tremulous voice. 

Well, isn’t that exactly what I am saying ? You have never been 
as bad as I, and I, as every one will admit, am a very nice girl, and 
have never in my life done anything of which I am ashamed.” 

^‘Oh, it is useless to talk to you,” he sighed, shaking his head. 

Unless God works a miracle, you are lost, — eternally lost.” 

We’ll settle all that when we get home, Nat ; but it doesn’t inter- 
est Miss Douglas, and if you want to make yourself charming to the 
ladies, you know, you have got to hit upon some lighter topic than 
hell, — something more agreeable than damnation.” 

‘‘ It is my fault, not his,” Constance interposed. It was I sought 
his acquaintance, not he mine.” 


THE OLD ADAM. 


611 


Well, you’ll know better next time,” said Miss Saunders, laugh- 
ing. Unless you are curious about the state of affairs in the infernal 
regions, you had better let him alone. It is a fact, though, that in 
infernal affairs he is very much at home.” 

Two waiters here approached, one with a tray upon which stood a 
dozen glasses, and the other carrying a champagne-cooler. 

lioederer or Veuve Cliquot?” he asked. 

Cliquot,” ans^vered Constance. 

I don’t know the difference,” exclaimed Delia, with a bewitching 
glance at the waiter, when the question was repeated to her. 

See or sweet?” explained that imperturbable functionary. 

That is all Greek to me, you know,” she laughed, appealing again 
to the red-whiskered Ganymede. But I suppose it is safe to take the 
same as Miss Douglas.” 

She seized the glass as soon as it was filled, nodded gayly to Bur- 
roughs and Constance, and was about to drink, when suddenly a new 
thought struck her. 

“Oh, I forgot! Champagne is liquor, isn’t it? I signed the 
pledge last year. I must not drink.” 

“ Wliat kind of pledge was that?” asked Constance. 

“ A temperance pledge. You know the woman’s-suffrage com- 
mittee in our State w^as in need of a temperance lecturer, and they 
urged me to go on the platform. I had to sign the pledge ; but it was 
only whiskey I was thinking about at that time. I never thought of 
champagne. And it is not a great hardship for me to refrain from 
drinking whiskey.” 

When the tray was presented to Burroughs, his face grew very red, 
and the veins upon his forehead swelled. He sniffed for a moment the 
sweet fumes of the wine, and his hand shook as he raised it to seize 
the filled glass. 

“ Look here, Nat,” said Delia, with quiet remonstrance, laying her 
hand upon his arm : “ I wouldn’t, if I w^ere you.” 

He withdrew his hand, and, with a strange nervous restlessness, 
ran his fingers through his hair. Then he rose abruptly, and, without 
looking at the ladies, w^alked with long strides toAvard the door and 
disappeared. Constance, as if unable to comprehend the meaning of 
what had happened, glanced questioningly at Cordelia, who instantly 
flung herself into the seat he had vacatecl. 

“ He used once to be a hard drinker,” she said, wdth unwonted 
seriousness. 

“ Indeed !” 

“ He was clerk in Judson’s hat-store then, and he lost his place 
because he got drunk.” 

“ How very sad !” 

“Then he got religion very hard, — the fact is, he takes everything 
hard, — and they say he was a powerful exhorter.” 

“ What is that?” 

“ Why, don’t you know, he w^ent to camp-meetings and reviv^als, 
and got people to confess their sins and join the church.” 

“ Oh, I see.” 


612 


THE OLD ADAM. 


‘^Then he became superintendent of the Sunday-school, and some 
well-to-do people in town clubbed together and sent him to the 
Methodist Theological Seminary. But there was no sort of modera- 
tion in him. He was so tremendously in earnest that he nearly broke 
up the institution.^^ 

How very extraordinary 

‘^Oh, no, it isn’t so extraordinary as you might think. You know 
there isn’t a spark of fun in him of any sort. He never knows when 
he is making a fool of himself. Once he gave away his coat'and vest 
to a beggar on a cold winter day, and came walking into the semi- 
nary with nothing but his shirt and pants on. He had discovered that 
the Bible commanded him to do so. His shoes and stockings he was 
continually giving away. He was forever boiling and fuming inside 
about something or other, always in a mental turmoil, always torment- 
ing himself about something which was of no earthly consequence. 
At last a Catholic priest got hold of him ; and I don’t think the 
Methodists regretted losing him. Since he became a Catholic he is 
much more rational. The priest convinced him that all the things he 
worried about were no concern of his, — that the Church had settled 
all those things for him, and that his only business was to obey. I 
wouldn’t agree to that sort of thing myself, but for a fellow like Nat 
I think it is a good thing.” 

From having been biographical, Delia presently became autobio- 
graphical, and related some curious chapters of her own early life. 
She treated herself with great humor, as if she were another person, 
for whose doings she was in no wise responsible. She was a grad- 
uate of Oberlin, it appeared, — a veritable A.B., — and had obtained an 
honorary A.M, She had been engaged half a dozen times while she 
was at college, and thought it was a useful experience, as it had given 
her great self-confidence and a healthy contempt for men. Her novel 
and amusing expressions and her reckless unconventionality impressed 
Constance, and inclined her to the opinion that at the bottom of her 
nature there was something stanch and genuine, but that, from a spirit 
of rebellion, she took pleasure in representing herself in an unfavorable 
light. 

The sun-flushed mist that hung over the Campagna shone with a 
deeper gold, and the tall stone-pines looked blacker against the radiant 
west, when the heavy doors of the banqueting-hall were thrown open, 
and the company moved, with airy chatter, rustling of skirts, and 
crackling of shirt-bosoms, toward the upper terrace. The count, to 
w’hom his leave of absence had appeared long, presented himself again 
with the elaborate courtesy of his race, and conducted both ladies out 
into the open air. There Sir Percy, a little bit flushed with wine, was 
expatiating upon the beauty of the scenery, and was comparing it with 
Hong-Kong, Himalaya, and all sorts of outlandish places. He ad- 
dressed himself directly to Cordelia, who, after having listened for a 
while, declared that she couldn’t agree with him. 

‘^The last time I was in the Himalayas,” she said, I didn’t find 
it a bit like this ; and as for Hong-Kong, there were so many heathen 
Chinese there that they spoiled the landscape for me. Now, I think 


THE OLD ADAM. 613 

if this reminds me of anything, it is the plains of Benares or the 
steppes of Kamchatka/^ 

It was fortunate for her that Sir Percy did not perceive that she 
was making sport of him ; but Constance understood it, and marvelled 
at her audacity. 

It is very hard to talk interestingly about a landscape, even if it 
be ever so beautiful ; and there was a sense of relief visible on the part 
of both ladies and gentlemen when the tribute of admiration had been 
paid and it argued no impropriety to relapse into personalities. Con- 
stance allowed herself to be carried off unresistingly by the count, who, 
in response to a random remark of hers about the rank luxuriousness 
of vegetation in the lower garden, offered to conduct her thither. In 
order to get there they were obliged to descend a pair of slippery stairs, 
overgrown with rock-weed, and to penetrate a long, dark tunnel, in 
which burned but a single dim lamp before a shrine of the Madonna. 
A damp and muggy smell struck against them, like something tangi- 
ble, as they plunged into the chilly dusk, and Constance drew her 
shawl shudderingly about her. She would never have allowed herself 
to be beguiled into such an expedition if she had had the full command 
of her will-power and had known the nature of the undertaking. 
But since Burroughs had left her she found herself in a curiously 
lethargic and semi-comatose condition. It did not seem to matter in 
the least what she did, or what was done with her. The count’s com- 
pliments, which she had hitherto received with smiling satisfaction, 
appeared now vapid and meaningless, and the whole personality of her 
favored admirer had undergone a similar change. There was some- 
thing futile and trivial and hollow about them which she had never before 
been aware of. The terrible words, There is no peace in Satan’s 
clutches,” rang in her ears, and, strive as she might, she could not get 
rid of them. She surprised herself by w’alking to their rhythm, 
and even her breath in some mysterious way kept time with them. 
She was not exactly afraid of Satan’s clutches for herself ; but there 
was something violent and wholly unaccustomed in the rude vigor of 
the idea which they presented, something entirely out of tune with her 
whole being. Her life had been like a soft, sweet melody, in which 
there had been scarcely a jarring note. But here was a strident discord, 
which shrieked and shrieked and shivered the harmonies into splinters: 

There is no peace in Satan’s clutches.” 

What had she to do with Satan’s clutches, she who had embroidered 
an altar-cloth for the Rev. Mr. Norman’s church in the Via Nazionale, 
and had never neglected to make her obeisances to God whenever His 
name was mentioned ? It was very annoying that this absurd phrase 
kept importuning her and could not be gotten rid of. She began to 
fear that she would lose control of herself unless something occurred 
to change the drift of her thought. She clung to the count’s arm with 
an energy which he was in danger of misinterpreting. But something 
like a vague, pleading murmur, infinitely sad and touching, haunted 
her ears, and sent cold shudders down her back. Now it stopped 
abruptly, then broke forth anew in entreating accents, and died away 
in a moan of utter contrition and despair. It was as if some damned 


614 


THE OLD ADAM. 


spirit had risen from the awful pit to pour forth his agonized soul in 
a prayer for forgiveness and surcease of torment. Witli a wild effort 
to steady her agitated nerves, Constance plunged forward, holding her 
companion's arm with the grip of terror. She had a dreadful convic- 
tion that something was stirring behind her, following close in her 
steps, but she did not dare turn about to see what it was. Then the 
despairing voice was silent. The shrine, with its lamp which flickered 
feebly in the murky air, appeared like a sanctified refuge from the evil 
phantoms that pursued her. There could be no doubt of it, there was 
somebody behind her. There is no peace in Sataifs clutches.^^ Was 
that the reason she was so agitated? Could it be possible that — no, the 
thought was too preposterous ; but, for all that, she felt one of those 
relentless black claws right behind her, as if ready to grasp her by the 
neck. With this cold horror clutching at her heart, she rushed up 
toward the altar. The rude features of a painted Madonna rose faintly 
out of the encompassing gloom. She flung herself into a pair of in- 
visible arms that stretched out of the dark, and she felt a heart beat 
hot and fast against her own. A warm breath grazed her cheek ; then 
the arms were relaxed as by a shock, and she fell upon the steps of the 
shrine. A sound as of rushing water filled her ears; then she seemed 
to be sinking, sinking, sinking, until she lost herself in a white void 
and dissolved into the infinite nothing. 

When she regained her consciousness she found herself lying on the 
gravel in the garden, with the count^s coat rolled up under her head. 
He was kneeling at her side, bathing her forehead with eau-de-cologne 
and holding a vinaigrette to her nose. On the other side of her stood 
young Talbot, with a face full of acute misery, and Burroughs, with a 
stony stare which might express anything. The sun shone round about 
her, the leaves of the ilex rustled, and there was a great stone-})ine 
which blotted out half the sky. That was the only impression which 
for a long while penetrated her torpid senses. Then slowly her memory 
asserted this fact and that, and the situation dawned upon her. 

It is this — this — young man,^^ said the count, with intense bitter- 
ness, — it is he who has caused this trouble.’^ 

He did not point toward Talbot, but he turned his head toward ^ 
him and stared at him with savage severity. In response to Con- 
stance’s surprised look, he continued, It was he who walked behind 
us and frightened you.’’ 

Talbot looked the picture of abject humility and despair ; he almost 
tottered under the burden of his guilt. It was his torturing jealousy 
which had prompted him to play the spy. To see his beloved plunge, 
as it were, into the bowels of the earth with his detested rival (it was 
in this kind of melodramatic language that Talbot depicted the situa- 
tion to himself), — what sort of lover would he have been if he had en- 
dured such an affront? Of course he had not intended to frighten 
her out of her wits, nor had it occurred to him that his stealthy foot- 
steps behind her (which he imagined were quite inaudible) would send 
her flying toward the shrine, where that loon Burroughs was holding 
his devotions. It was that unexpected phantom, struggling with the 
old Adam in him (and in this instance evidently succumbing), who had 


THE OLD ADAM. 615 

wrought all the mischief, and against whom the count^s wrath ought to 
have been directed. 

Gentlemen, we can now dispense with your services,’^ said the 
count, with frigid civility, assisting Constance to rise to her feet. ‘‘ I 
shall have the pleasure of sending a friend to you to-morrow, Mr. 
Talbot, and calling you to account for your conduct.^^ 

Talbot felt as if his heart would break. The way that high-nosed 
Frenchman said we^’ nearly drove him to distraction. He could 
have murdered the count with enthusiasm, and he felt a tragic satis- 
faction in the probability that to-morrow the count might have the 
privilege of murdering him instead. For that the friend’s call meant 
a challenge he had no doubt, and those military fire-eaters were expert 
shots and swordsmen, against whom he could scarcely hold a candle. 
The young man, in a state of exalted misery, marched down the weed- 
choked gravel-walk, and hid his sorrows behind the foliage of a wild- 
growing arbor. 

Burroughs, in a wholly different frame of mind, followed a di- 
verging path, .striding heedlessly along, with a dogged look, through 
which the kindling emotion occasionally flashed. 

Almighty God,” he cried, and cast an imploring look toward the 
sky, Almighty God, what is to become of me? Why hast thou 
made me so black a sinner? O God, tear the sin out of my heart 
and make me pure ! Make me pure !” he shouted, and wrung his 
hands until every finger-joint cracked. Why hast thou brought 
this woman into my path?” he went on, with low and passionate plead- 
ing. ‘‘ Thou knowest how weak I am : oh, tempt me not so sorely ! 
Oh, God, God, God !” he cried, with rising ardor, “ I am lost ! I am 
damned ! But, Father in heaven, oh, take this curse away from me ! 
I almost glory in my damnation !” 

He flung himself down behind a boxwood hedge, wrung his hands, 
and beat his breast, while through his groans and impassioned cries 
to God sounded the merry twitter of birds in the chestnuts overhead. 
He heard but faintly the summons of the bugle from the terrace, and 
saw as in a dream the gay ladies, mounted upon donkeys, each escorted 
by a cavalier, move out of the gate and descend the rocky slope. Now 
and then a pretty face and figure became visible above the wall, or a 
bright-colored garment glimmered among the great tree-trunks. But 
he closed his eyes and lay motionless. He knew the wiles of the devil. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A PERPLEXING SITUATION. 

Talbot paced up and down the mosaic floor in his stately studio. 
He was in a state of feverish excitement. Now he felt glorified, 
exalted, and then again humiliated, angry, and mortally frightened. 
He did not like to acknowledge this latter emotion, but, for all that, 
when the cold fact stared him in the face that before night he might be 
a dead man, he found it impossible to suppress a nervous tremor. He 
had spent the night in making a pathetic will, in which he bequeathed 


616 


THE OLD ADAM. 


his pictures and all his other effects, including a capital of some forty- 
five thousand dollars, to Constance Douglas, ‘‘as a memorial of the love 
he bore her/^ There were no reproaches, no sentimental allusions, but 
merely this barren, matter-of-fact statement, which he repeated to him- 
self, with tears in his eyes, as he walked up and down the floor. He 
never observed where the rugs ended and the mosaic commenced, and 
the sudden click of his heels upon the stone gave him every time a slight 
shock. The vision of Constance in her suave and lovely dignity — 
so gentle, so high-bred, so distractingly adorable — hovered before him 
wherever he turned ; and the thought that this one glorious woman — 
the only one in all the world for him — should belong to that soulless, 
mechanical puppet of a Frenchman filled him with an agony of 
despair. He had never imagined that this wild strength of sufl'ering 
was in him. It seemed as if every cord of his being must snap, — as 
if every breath that broke with pain from the depth of his breast must 
be his last. 

His breakfast was sent to his bedroom, which adjoined the studio, 
at about nine o’clock, but he found it impossible to touch it. Watkins, 
the servant, observed with wonder that he had not been undressed, and 
asked respectfully if he might not bring him a glass of port wine or 
sherry. Talbot nodded, and continued his restless walk. On the re- 
turn of the servant he drank a glass of sherry, and his agitation pres- 
ently gave way to a dogged stoicism. He was about to seal the envelope 
containing his will, when suddenly it occurred to him that without a 
witness it would not be valid. He accordingly rang for Watkins, and 
with a nonchalant air begged him to witness the signature of this paper. 
Watkins, taking in the situation at a glance, scravvled a series of large 
and rambling letters which might or might not mean Watkins. Then 
he took his leave noiselessly, and within two minutes Sir Percy emerged 
from his bath, arrayed in a long dressing-gown thrown over his robe de 
nuity and advanced with a startled countenance to the middle of the 
room. 

“Why, what the deuce — aw — does this mean, Talbot?” he cried, 
quite out of breath. “Watkins says you have been making your 
will.” 

“Well, I just thought I might as well do it now as some other 
time,” Talbot replied, with forced gayety. “Nobody knows when 
he’s got to turn up his toes. Sir Percy.” 

“Oh, stuff, my boy! stuff !” exclaimed the baronet, impatiently. 
“ You don’t fancy — aw — you can fool me with that sort of chaff, do 
you ?” 

“ I don’t want to fool you. Sir Percy ; but really, if you will par- 
don me, I think I am master of my own conduct, and do not owe you 
an account of my actions.” 

“ Oh, come now, my dear fellow, don’t be huffed. You don’t owe 
me — aw — anything but what you would — aw — owe to — aw — any friend 
who takes an interest in you. Whether you like it or not, I am going 
to stay with you to-day and see that you don’t commit any folly.” 

Sir Percy, wrapping his rich Turkish dressing-gown about his portly 
form, went to the door and rang the bell. When Watkins reappeared, 


THE OLD ADAM, 


617 


with a promptness as if he had been attached to the bell-cord, his master 
ordered, with much minuteness, the clothes which he was to wear, and 
his toilet-case. 

“ My dear fellow,^’ the kind-hearted Briton soliloquized, as he stood 
before the mirror brushing his scant locks with two superbly-carved 
ivory brushes, I knew it well enough yesterday. You have — aw — 
fallen under the enchantment of Circe, don^t you know?’^ 

Talbot, who saw that every motion he made was watched in the 
mirror, flung himself into a chair and sighed. He knew that his noble 
friend was perhaps the most stubborn man of the most stubborn race 
that the sun has ever shone upon, and he was aware that remonstrance 
on his part would be sheer waste of breath. He therefore resigned him- 
self, with much bitterness and vexation of spirit, to the inevitable, and 
fell to watching the various operations of the baronet’s extremely 
complicated toilet. He could not help admiring his magnificent build, 
his great, hairy chest, his straight and robust figure, his red, mascu- 
line neck, and the conscientious care which he bestowed upon his per- 
sonal adornment. The array of silver-topped cut-glass bottles stretched 
itself farther and farther across the curtained duchesse toilet-table, and 
a large assortment of brushes and instruments of manicure occupied 
all the space that was left. The valet, who stood by, silently handing 
his master each article as it was needed, was the most perfect human 
automaton that ever could have been devised. The undyed camel-hair 
underclothes were fine as silk and as light and soft as down. As the 
sublime never lies remote from the ridiculous, Talbot soon found him- 
self pitying his own simple estate. When compared with this indispu- 
tably superior product of a more complex civilization, his hasty ten- 
minutes’ toilet appeared to him like a remnant of barbarism. As a mere 
well-groomed animal, he surely could not hold a candle to his host. 
And might not that possibly account for the light esteem in which he 
was held by the woman he loved ? It was an instinctive sentiment on 
her part, of course ; but was it at all unlikely that she, who herself be- 
longed to the physically elaborate, highly developed species, might feel 
a half-unconscious alienation from him because he was a less perfect 
animal and less carefully tended? The count moved at her side with 
stately ease as her peer and equal, and not a hair of his head or of his 
waxed moustache was ever out of order. His nails were long, polished, 
and rosy, and his hands large, firm, and of noble shape. That, in spite 
of this, he was unutterably detestable, she could scarcely be expected to 
discover, because she had lived only on the surface of her soul, and had 
never had any experience \vhich had stirred its depths. 

It was a bitter discovery the young artist made while he sat there 
watching Sir Percy preparing himself for the battle of life. He came 
to the conclusion that his love was hopeless ; that even if he was not 
killed to-day — even if he had never been refused — there was not a 
shadow of a possibility that Constance would ever put up Avith such a 
second-rate specimen of humanity as. himself. It accordingly made very 
little difference whether the count killed him or not ; and he determined, 
when the second called, to choose pistols, and as short a distance as the 
rules permitted. 


618 


THE OLD ADAM. 


It was a little after ten o’clock when Sir Percy dismissed his valet, 
hooked his arm in Talbot’s, and conducted him into the studio. The 
latter, being too utterly broken in spirit to offer any resistance, dropped 
into an easy -chair and hid his face in his hands. The baronet remained 
standing in front of him, and gazed at him with eyes full of compas- 
sion. 

“ Talbot, my boy,” he said, seriously, I am sorry for you ; I am 
awfully sorry for you. If it were — aw — a heartless coquette who had 
set her trap for you, I could — aw — I could perhaps help you ; but she 
isn’t that sort. The deuce of it is that she is divinely perfect. If I 
were — aw — twenty years younger, I might make my will too, because 
she had refused me — don’t you know ? — and put — aw — a hole through 
— aw — my cranium, and make no end of — aw — unpleasantness for ray 
friends. But — aw — I have, on the whole, forgiven her — aw — for not 
wanting to be Lady Arrnitage, and — aw — I dare say you will forgive 
her for not wishing to be Mrs. Talbot, don’t you know?” 

Having delivered himself of this speech, which was tbe longest 
Talbot ever had heard him make, Sir Percy began to pace up and 
down on the floor, pausing every now and then before the sketches and 
unfinished pictures which were tacked to the panel. The studio was a 
perfect museum of picturesque antiquities : mediseval swords, armors, 
helmets, and breast-plates shone upon the walls, and a variety of rich 
textile fabrics, Italian and Oriental, were draped over easels, tables, 
and carved chests of oak exhibiting gaunt saints in devotional attitudes. 
All these treasures belonged to Sir Percy, but he delighted to play Mae- 
cenas, and his liberality toward his artistic proteg^ knew no bounds. 

Talbot,” he said, after having studied a bronze Faun upon the 
mantel-piece with feigned interest, I wish you would cheer up and go 
to work. I don’t want — aw — to scold ; but for your own sake — don’t 
you know? — it might be a good thing. I can pardon — aw — a man in 
love for being lazy, but I can’t — aw — pardon a lazy man for being in 
love.” 

This unexpected epigram so pleased its author that he had to take 
another turn on the floor, and the world in general began to assume a 
more cheerful aspect to him. He was about to impart some more good 
advice, when Watkins entered and presented him with a card upon a 
silver salver. 

M. Raymond de Bellac ! I know no such man.” 

The call is for me,” said Talbot, with forced composure, lifting his 
pale and suffering face from the arm of the chair. 

You wish me to go?” 

If you would be so kind.” 

Sir Percy stood for a moment hesitating, and turned at last to go. 
But before he reached the door he faced about and took three rapid 
steps toward his young friend. 

Talbot,” he said, in a voice of sympathetic distress, you have 
some devilish plan in your head. .There is — aw — no use denying it.” 

Well, suppose I have: what are you going to do about it?” 

Watch you till you recover your reason ; that is what I am going 
to do about it.” 


THE OLD ADAM. 


619 


I shall never recover ray reason, as you call 
My dear fellow, that is — aw — what we all think, don’t you know? 
But never is a good while. I will lay you a hundred guineas that — 
aw — in a fortnight you will have taken your jdace rationally — aw — 
with the rest of us at the — aw — foot of the shrine and be — aw — 
humbly content with the sight and the smile — aw — of the goddess.” 

The baronet had in the mean while made a sign to Watkins to show 
the visitor in. Presently a small, dapper Frenchman, with an omi- 
nously solemn mien, was ushered into the room. He gazed doubtfully 
from Talbot to Sir Percy, and, as the latter seemed to assume the duties 
of host, he approached him with a ceremonious bow, and said, — 

‘‘ I have the honor to present to you, in behalf of ray friend M. 
le Comte de Saint-R^ault, a challenge to fight a duel, with swords or 
pistols, as it may suit your convenience.” 

‘‘^Ho, ho !” ejaculated Sir Percy, I was — aw — expecting something 
of that sort. — But, my dear boy,” he cried, turning to Talbot, ‘‘what 
have you been doing to the count — aw — to make him — aw — want to 
kill you? I thought you said — aw — ^you had been. refused.” 

“ No, I didn’t say it.” 

“ Then you have been accepted ! Corpo di Bacco ! But what 
the deuce is it you are — aw — moping about, then ?” 

“You can’t understand. Sir Percy, and I cannot explain.” 

“You are — aw — not exactly complimentary, don’t you know?” 

Talbot looked wearily out of the window. 

“If you will pardon me. Sir Percy,” he said, after a pause, “I will 
settle this affair with M. de Bellac, and you will have the kindness, I 
hope, not to — not to ” 

“Not to interfere. Yes, exactly. All right, my boy. If you 
wiant — aw — to make a target of yourself, it is — aw — your affair and 
not mine.” 

Sir Percy made a bow to the Frenchman, and, to Talbot’s surprise, 
took his departure. When his broad back vanished behind the blue 
portieres, his protegS drew a sigh of relief, and proceeded, in as good 
French as he could command, to make arrangements for a duel in a 
vineyard outside the Porta Pia at seven o’clock the following morn- 
ing. Quite unconsciously he took for his model the hero of one of 
Sardou’s plays, and acted with an airy nonchalance which he felt to 
be extremely impressive. He insisted upon pistols and twenty paces, 
and remarked with a melancholy smile that he hoped that the count 
would forgive him for taking an advantage of him in presenting the 
smaller target. He hoped the count’s superior skill in the use of weapons 
would compensate for this disadv^antage. M. de Bellac, who was quite 
unprepared for such blood-curdling sang-froid in an American, objected 
to his barbarous conditions, and gave Talbot the satisfaction of playing 
his heroic part to the end. Of course I do not mean to insinuate that 
his sorrow was feigned and his conduct insincere ; but his temperament 
was so constituted that he could act and suffer simultaneously. A 
curious sub-consciousness of heroism throbbed through his sore and 
aching heart, without at all relieving its soreness. 

After a conference lasting half an hour, M. de Bellac backed out 


620 


THE OLD ADAM, 


of the room with many bows, promising to return in the afternoon 
with the count^s acceptance or proposed modification of the conditions. 
Talbot spent the forenoon (as he felt, under the constant surveillance of 
the servants) in writing farewell letters to his friends, until he was in- 
terrupted by the announcement of luncheon. He found Sir Percy, who 
had just returned from a drive, in excellent humor, without at all sus- 
pecting the cause. But at three o’clock, when M. de Bel lac returned 
with a letter from the count unconditionally withdrawing his challenge 
and declaring that it had been provoked by a deplorable misunderstand- 
ing, the plot began to unravel itself, and he divined that Sir Percy must 
be at the bottom of it. He felt angry at first, and humiliated : he could 
not but regret the wasted misery and poignant sorrow of the night. 
But he did not dare question Sir Percy, or complain. He knew that 
what he had done was prompted by the kindest feeling. A strange 
lassitude came over him. He felt weary and withered in every |jmb. 
The world lay like a great dreary blank before him. But when he 
closed his eyes, there shone with a mild radiance in his memory a pure 
and lovely face, and a pair of clear and tranquil eyes gazed upon him 
with a divine compassion. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE OLD ADAM. 

Nathaniel Burroughs spent a wakeful and miserable night, 
after the picnic, at an inn in Frascati, and, without breakfasting, took 
an early train the next morning to Rome. His head was heavy as 
lead, and the futility of existence oppressed him like a positive burden. 
His throat was parched, and he had a bitter taste in his mouth. Every 
now and then he found himself talking to himself, uttering inane 
phrases which seemed to have no connection with his thought. 

I am now forty years old,” he would mutter, automatically, and 
then recollect in the next moment that he was not forty, but thirty-two 
years old. As he walked from the railroad-station across the Piazza 
delle Terme, he began to yawn, and a deadly weariness overtook him. 
He would have liked to lie down, like an irresponsible beggar, against 
a sunny wall, and sleep away from all his misery. Why did he find 
it so much harder than other people to live uprightly? Why did the 
Evil One mock him by perpetual temptations, and God, upon whom he 
called, send no angel to help him ? There was a mighty mystery at the 
bottom of all this, and Burroughs, exhausted as he was, did not have the 
strength to grapple with it. But, for all that, the queries haunted him 
like a whisper in the dark, Is it I who am wrong, or is it life that is 
wrong? If I am wrong, why did God make me so? Do I not pray 
to Him. and pour out my soul to Him, and cry to Him out of the night 
that will swallow me up?” 

He saw the grand staircase leading up to the Santa Maria Mag- 
giore, and its length seemed endless ; he climbed wearily up, but had 
scarcely strength to push aside the leather mattress that covered the 
entrance. He reeled through the monumental pomp of marble tombs 


THE OLD ADAM. 


621 


and porphyry columns. There was a grateful dusk under the lofty 
arclies, although a multitude of tapers burned about the high altar, 
and the sun sent shafts of jasper, sapphire, and ruby radiance through 
the great rose-window. Big glowing drops of blood-red light trembled 
upon the walls and brought illusive blushes to the emaciated cheeks of 
the painted martyrs. The air vibrated with the deep but subdued tones 
of the organ, which sounded like a distant muttering of the wrath to 
come. 

Nathaniel Burroughs crossed himself and murmured a prayer. 
The mere outward impression of the splendor of the church soothed 
his overstrained nerves : emotional as he was, ever vacillating between 
extremes of feeling, he had a sudden sensation as if a shield had been 
thrust forward between him and the fiends that pursued him, — as if he 
had suddenly stepped into the shadow of the Almighty’s wings. The 
air, heavy with incense, seemed also to dull the edge of his pain, and the 
music with its solemn monotony lulled the voices of fear and remorse 
into an uneasy slumber. He seemed part of something far grander 
and stronger than his own petty self, — something mighty and venerable, 
that had borne for ages the woes of man and settled his account with 
the stern Creator. This feeling he had never had in the dreary little 
carpeted church in Indiana, with its pathetic whitewashed barrenness, 
and its twenty yards of stove-pipe, supported by iron wires which 
ascended with many crooks and bends toward the ceiling. It was 
beautiful and satisfactory that the greatness of God should impress the 
sense as well as the soul; and Burroughs felt, amid this rich, august 
splendor, the presence of the Most High as he had never felt it before. 

Moving mechanically, he had walked up the right transept and 
found himself in the gorgeous Sistine Chapel. The mass was being 
celebrated in another part of the church, but under the vast dome the 
chorus of angelic boy-voices, with the deep organ accompaniment, was 
scarcely more than a melodious murmur, a softly-surging sound which 
rose and fell and broke in music and was silent. The American felt 
the tears rise to his eyes. The music, the voices of the boys, the 
s])lendor of the church, all united into an overwhelming impression 
which could only find vent in tears. He flung himself down beside 
the tomb of Pope Sixtus V. and wept like a child. Through the 
mist of tears he became at last conscious of Ribera’s great picture that 
hung on the wall before him. It was St. Jerome beating with a stone 
his poor, withered flesh, in which a spark of unholy desires appeared 
yet to be lingering. The penitent, remembering the saint’s trials in 
the desert, so much severer than his own, gazed earnestly at the picture, 
moving his lips silently, and, merely to keep temptation at bay, told 
his rosary with feverish ardor. But the moment his zeal faltered, St. 
Jerome’s grizzled head would change into a far lovelier one, which would 
peep with its sweet, vague smile out of the mist of incense and put all 
the pious fancies to flight. Again and again the battle was renewed, 
and again and again the old Adam routed the new. 

Late in the afternoon a priest, happening to visit the Sistine Chapel, 
ol)served a man lying prostrate upon the floor, with his forehead rest- 
ing upon the step of the pope’s tomb. He supposed at first that he 
Yol. XLI.— 40 


622 


THE OLD ADAM. 


might be praying; but, being struck by his strange immobility, he 
tapped him on the slioulder and whispered, Pax vobiscumP As the 
penitent made no response to this greeting, the priest called an assist- 
ant, and soon ascertained that the man was unconscious. Together 
they carried him into the sacristy, bathed his temples, and chafed his 
hands. Presently a young priest entered who recognized the American. 
A physician was sent for, the patient was bled, and every effort was 
made for his resuscitation. But the tide of life was running low in 
that gaunt, emaciated frame, and it seemed for a while as if God would 
grant his prayer, giving to the spirit the final victory over the flesh. 

When Burroughs opened his eyes he felt as if he were returning 
from a long, bright journey. He took up the burden of consciousness 
with regret. He did not know where he was, and dreaded the effort to 
recall the agonized fever-dream which yet smouldered in his memory 
like a half-smothered fire. A Sister of Mercy, with a benign and 
placid face, was kneeling at his bed, moving her lips in silent prayer. 
Tlie crucifix on the table before him, the iron bed upon which he lay, 
and the bare gray walls, told him that he was in a hospital. His limbs 
ached when he tried to move them, his head seemed too heavy to lift, 
and his hands, as they lay on the bed-spread, felt numb and enormously 
large. He thought, with a vague satisfaction, that he had contracted 
the Roman fever and that the hour of rest was close at hand. A bitter 
reluctance to take up again the half-won battle with the fiends that 
dwelt in his heart was the only sensation of w^hich he was conscious. 


CHAPTER IX. 

AN UNCONGENIAL PAIR. 

It was about three weeks after Sir Percy’s picnic when the Rev. 
Augustus Norman, a spare and lean man, with a clean-shaven eccle- 
siastical face, mounted the broad staircase of the Barberini Palace and 
rang the door-bell of the Douglas apartment. He looked more like a 
Catholic priest than a Protestant clergyman; and it is safe to prophesy 
that if he had been what he looked, he would have been an archbishop 
or a cardinal. Such thin and clean-cut lips, so finely arched a nose, ex- 
pressing altogether a highly-organized personality, and such ])erfect, 
well-bred worldliness, lead in the Church of Rome to honors which our 
Protestant establishment cannot bestow. 

Mr. Norman had come to pay a pastoral visit to Miss Douglas, 
whom, as a man of the world, he admired, and in whose spiritual wel- 
fare h3 was, as her pastor, naturally interested. It had been frequently 
insinuated that, in case she had been an heiress, he would have aspired 
to her hand. But this was chiefly because he was a man of whom it 
seemed inconceivable that he could marry any one but an heiress, if he 
married at all, and she was a woman whom no man could a])proach 
without being supposed to harbor matrimonial intentions. It seemed 
so entirely fit that she should marry Mr. Nofman, because he stood as 
much apart from other men as she did from other women ; and, more- 


THE OLD ADAM, 023 

over, it was obvious to any one who knew how to judge of such rela- 
tions that neither was in the least in love with the other. 

When Mr. Norman entered the Renaissance salon, with the Cupids 
and the Gobelin tapestries, he composed his soul in patience, knowing 
that he would have to wait, and began critically to examine the bric-A- 
brac. He was a great judge of bric-4-brac, and was appealed to as 
indisputable authority in porcelain, Etruscan pottery, mediaeval carvings, 
and all sorts of artistic antiquities. Americans in Rome rarely made 
an important purchase without first obtaining his approval. He picked 
up a superb antique gem, representing Paris and the three goddesses, 
and admired the exquisitely articulated limbs and the noble pose of 
the four figures. He had not by any means exhausted their charm, 
when the draperies of the door were drawn apart, and Constance ad- 
vanced toward him with outstretched hands. She did not greet him 
impetuously, but with the quiet cordiality of an old friend. He 
grasped both hands, but had, before they had reached him, made his 
quick and acute observations. He saw that something unusual had 
haj^pened, — that a new force had invaded Constance^s life and kindled 
a new light in her eyes. 

Being something of a gossip, of a refined and entertaining kind, ]\Ir. 
Norman began by relating the latest news of the town, who had come 
and who had gone, the latest rumor of a compromise with the Vatican, 
and the very vague but not. incredible rei)ort that a certain grand 
historic family, which in the past had supplied several popes, were 
seeking a reconciliation with the Quirinal. He had just built his 
bridge with diplomatic skill to a little personal confidence, when, to his 
chagrin, the maid entered and announced, with a curious Italian twist. 
Signore Nathaniele Buroz. Constance hesitated for a moment, during 
which a perceptible emotion flitted across her face, and finally said, with 
an effort, Show him in.’^ 

The drapery of the door was pulled aside once more, and a face, 
yellowish-pale and shaggy, appeared between its folds. Constance 
shivered at the sight of it. Mr. Norman’s keen features grew tense 
with interest. Burroughs, without any greeting, and with his eyes fixed 
with a wild intensity uj)on Constance, staggered across the floor, and 
remained standing opposite to her, leaning against the arm of a chair. 
It was difficult to judge what that glance meant. It expressed anxiety, 
strained determination, sadness, and a gleam of frantic ecstasy. It was 
the glance of one risen from the dead, who had beheld the purgatorial 
flames, and whose soles they had singed. 

I have had a vision,” he said, in a deep, husky voice. 

My dear sir, you are ill,” ejaculated Mr. Norman, sympathetically, 
stepping up to him and seizing him by the arm. 

Burroughs looked at him in a vague, absent-minded way, and made 
once more an effort to speak, but a violent coughing-fit choked his 
voice. When he had recovered himself sufficiently, he straightened 
himself and pressed a red bandanna handkerchief against his eyes. 
Suddenly he removed it again, fixed the same burning gaze upon Con- 
stance, and cried, with terrible solemnity, Hell is yawning at your 
feet !” 


624 


THE OLD ADAM. 


Constance gave a start, turned pale, and sank back in her chair. 
She trembled violently, and shuddered as with cold. 

I have been dead,’^ Burroughs continued, in his deep, vibrating 
bass, but the Holy Virgin has sent me back to save you. I could 
have no peace in heaven or in hell if you were lost. I was ill, and I 
saw you in a vision, sinking, — sinking out of my sight. I called your 
name despairingly, and my voice travelled with awful reverberations 
through space. But you did not hear me. The pit opened and en- 
gulfed you. Then I plunged into the pit after you, and I prayed 
so loud and wildly that the abysses resounded with my voice, which 
rolled away like thunder. I heard you answer from far down in the 
deep, first faintly, but I followed the voice, shooting through barren 
realms of cold and terror, and, at the end of an infinite time, I found 
you. Listen to me now, for I cannot lose you again ; I will not, I 
must not lose you I’’ 

There was a sudden appealing tenderness in these last words which 
awakened an echo in Constance’s heart. She had felt shaken and sense- 
lessly frightened while he stood before her as the prophet of doom ; 
but in the last imploring tones there was a ring of warm human 
emotion which she understood. The immeasurable distance which 
had opened up between them, whenever he gave her a glimpse of his 
austere, storm-tossed soul, was not all at once annihilated, but it was 
lessened, so that the eye and the ear could reach across it. He was no 
longer a mere voice crying in the wilderness, but a man crying, and 
crying to her. She felt as if she had been asleep for a hundred years 
and had just been awakened. The sweet spiritual lethargy into which 
she had been born and more securely lulled by Mr. Norman’s gentle- 
manly and decorous sermons was a thing of the past ; and the beautiful 
equilibrium and repose of soul which had made her a wonder and a de- 
light she could never again recover. She was not clearly conscious of 
such a change, of course ; for she was not clearly conscious of anything 
except the shock to her whole being, which vibrated through deeps be- 
yond deeps, and aroused vague voices and cries, and dim fears, and 
tumult and ferment. 

Mr. Norman, who had attempted twice to interrupt the vehement 
harangue, now stepped forward with an air of authority, and said to 
Burroughs, ‘^Permit me to conduct you to your home. You have 
shocked Miss Douglas, and you owe her an apology.” 

Burroughs, as if he had just become aware of his presence, stared 
at him with solemn scorn. He knew Mr. Norman by sight, and had 
often expressed himself with unbounded contempt concerning the type 
of clergy which he represented. 

0 ye false prophets,” he exclaimed, warningly, ‘^ye wolves in 
sheep’s clothing, how shall ye flee from the wrath to come ?” 

Have the kindness to compose yourself, and then begone,” said 
Norman, superciliously. I must insist upon it. My coup4 is at the 
door. It is at your service.” 

1 will not go : I wish to speak with this woman alone.” 

Pardon me, but I may be obliged to summon the concierge, if 

you do not instantly obey.” 


THE OLD ADAM. 


625 


He appealed with his eyes to Constance, who still sat as she had 
fallen, with her hands pressed against her forehead. She rose now, 
slowly, as if struggling out of a dream, and came forward, with a face 
that wore an air of agitation and pained surprise. All her beautiful 
security and repose were gone. 

He wishes to speak with me alone, Mr. Norman/^ she said, in a 
tremulous whisper. 

Yes, but you — you don’t wish to speak with him ?” 

Yes, I do, — that is, I think I do.” 

You are not in a condition to decide that question, Miss Douglas. 
Let me decide it for you.” 

But the vision, Mr. Norman ! he has seen a vision.” 

Fiddlesticks ! He is crazy. Let me ring for the concierge.” 

She stood for a moment wavering, bewilderment and doubt vividly 
depicted in her features. Suddenly she met Burroughs’s great, mourn- 
ful gaze resting upon her. Her will-power shrank away and vanished. 
It was like a physical spell, — a charm, compelling submission. 

I will stay with him,” she said, meekly. Do not call the con- 
cierge.” 

‘‘ But I cannot allow it !” exclaimed the clergyman, in a vain at- 
tempt to assert his authority. 

He will do me no harm. He is a good man.” 

Very well : I wash my hands of all responsibility.” 

Mr. Norman made the stiffest possible bow, seized his hat, and re- 
tired into the vestibule. There he rang a bell and had an interview 
with Hortense, the French chambermaid, whom he commanded to be 
within call, as her mistress might need her. With his conscience thus 
partly pacified, he descended the stately staircase, invoking anathemas 
upon the crude and unwholesome fanaticism which had spoiled in an 
hour the beautiful work of many beautiful years. 

It is the Methodist that speaks through him,” Mr. Norman mut- 
tered. He is a Catholic only in name.” 

For in his heart Mr. Norman had a profound admiration for the 
pomp, the discipline, and the worldly sagacity of the Catholic Church, 
and fraternized, without the least scruple, with well-bred and learned 
ecclesiastics who shared his aesthetic proclivities. 

A light mist gathered in Constance’s eyes, as she stood quailing 
before Burroughs’s earnest and steady gaze, yet unable to tear herself 
away. She was conscious of no strong attraction toward him, but 
merely of a strange power which suspended her whole personality and 
made it subordinate to his. A kind of emotional tremulousness — an 
anxious insecurity, as if she were treading on marshy ground that might 
break under her feet — was her dominant sensation. In this state she 
could hardly be expected to observe the change which his glance under- 
went, gradually relaxing the severity of his features. The spiritual 
fires faded ; a pang of pity nestled at his heart, as he saw this grand 
and tranquil woman so shaken by the mere force of his gaze and his 
denunciation. He was not a brute ; and, with all his religious exalta- 
tion, he was very human. Emotions with him were overpowering while 
they lasted, but they vacillated between extremes, and follow^ each 


626 


THE OLD ADAM. 


other in quick succession. The fact began to dawn upon him once more 
that this wmman was supremely beautiful. He had been aware of it, 
of coui’se, from the first moment he saw her; but he had prayed and 
fasted and burned with fever until his body seemed but a fragile shell, 
through which the spirit might shine unobscured. But, righteous God, 
what had it all availed ? Here stood the emaciated remnant of him 
that was left and feasted with an ungodly delight on the sublime per- 
fection of the woman’s beauty. He had come to save her soul, to 
rouse her from her false security, and now he could not repress a vague 
regret that that sweet security was gone. What right had he to spoil 
so fair a work of God? — for was it not God who had made her fair and 
set her in the midst of a bright and smiling world to rejoice the hearts 
of men ? Why not rather join the throng of the gay, laugh with the 
merry, and snatch an hour of joy on the brink of the all-engulfing 
gloom ? 

These fancies flitted through the young ascetic’s brain as he stood 
face to face with Constance, trying to recall the stern message he had 
come to bring her. His eyes fell suddenly upon his own gaunt figure 
reflected in the long pier-glass, and he saw what he had never seen be- 
fore, — that he looked very shabby. His shoes particularly were dis- 
tressingly uncouth. There was something seedy and unfinished in his 
entire appearance. He had known before that he was not elegant ; but 
he had never aspired to be elegant. He had disdained to rival the 
world in its vanities. But that he looked like this, — simply and vul- 
garly shabby, — that he had never dreamed. An awkward self-con- 
sciousness came over him, and he found it impossible to recover his 
tone of authority. It was God who in order to punish him for his 
sinful thoughts had made him appear so pitiful. 

I had wished to say more to you,” he said, at last, bowing his 
head in deep humility, but God has not found me worthy. He has 
taken His spirit away from me.” 

She did not answer, but let her glance wander uneasily among the 
chubhy Cupids on the walls who were pelting each other with roses. 

‘‘ Do you — do you think — I am lost?” she asked, anxiously, with- 
out daring to look at him. 

The question sounded so strange that she blushed v/ith embarrass- 
ment. She had never before felt any anxiety about the state of her 
soul, and never talked with any one about it. 

I do not know the way of life myself,” he answered, in a voice of 
contrition ; how can I direct you ?” • 

But you said you did,” she murmured, innocently. 

The way that you go is the way of life to me.” 

There was a vague wonderment in the gaze she fixed upon him, — 
not disapprobation, but a puzzled distress, as if his speech was beyond 
her. She could not emancipate herself sufficiently from the code of 
etiquette, which bound her with invisible ties, to lay her soul bare before 
him; and a natural modesty, not wholly reprehensible, restrained her. 
She felt herself in the presence of a spkdtual power before which she 
was ready to bow down ; but, by a strange freak of feeling, the man in 
whom this power was embodied seemed remote and alien. He spoke to 


THE OLD ADAM. 


627 


her across an abyss, and she had to strain her voice to give him answer. 
If she had known that it was he who had clasped her in his arms in the 
dark tannel at the Villa Aldobrandini, she would probably have refused 
to see him ; but she had a confused impression that it was Talbot who 
had made all the trouble on that occasion, and, as no one had referred 
to the embrace, she was inclined to believe that it was a mere halluci- 
nation of her overwrought fancy. 

Nathaniel Burroughs, oppressed by the sense of his shabbiness, had 
backed away from the mirror, and sunk into a low settee embroidered 
with cranes in silver and black. He stared for a while vacantly before 
him, and groaned in spirit at the cruelty of the fate which held him in 
its clutch. Why had God brought this woman into his life? To tempt 
him, or in order that he might become the means of her salvation? He 
prayed silently for light ; and suddenly the thought stood out, bright 
and clear, that this was a mission from on high which he could not 
afford to disregard. The tears came into his eyes, — tears of gratitude 
and of joy. He had heard the voice in the night of perplexity and 
doubt which called upon him to save this rare and precious soul. Ah, 
but it was pitiful ! His heart was in the next moment torn with 
anguish. For the joy that flared up from the bottom of his being was 
not a holy joy, but mixed with a sinful delight in the sight and the 
anticipated companionship of a beautiful woman. He arose and gazed 
straight into her face with his black luminous eyes. 

I must go,^^ he said, in a voice choked with emotion: ^^the Lord 
has turned His countenance from me.^^ 

And will you come back?^^ she asked, half pleadingly. 

Yes : when the light burns again brightly within me, I will come 
back.^^ 

She advanced hesitatingly toward him and held out her hand as he 
turned to go. He grasped it with tremulous haste in his large, hot 
palm and shook with a delicious shudder. ^^Oh, God, have mercy upon 
me he murmured, as with unsteady steps he vanished between the 
folds of i\iQ jportihe. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE EMANCIPATION WAIST AND THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 

Curious afiinities are apt to spring up among people who have 
nothing to do. In Rome nobody who pretends to be anybody has any- 
thing to do; and therefore Americans who liv^d next door to each 
other in New York have to cross the ocean in order to get acquainted. 
Ill the Eternal City all the world has such a delightful air of leisure. 
Everybody has time to display his attractive side, if he has any. 
Characters which seemed arid and commonplace at home expand luxu- 
riously and blossom out with unsuspected charms. After two months’ 
companionship with the Coliseum and the ruined palace of the Csesars, 
Delia Saunders found it less incumbent upon her to reform the world, 
and George Talbot found it less likely that he would dethrone Raphael. 
Delia, being conscious of the insidious influences of antiquity, roused 
herself, however, and in order to regain her self-respect made an occa- 


628 


THE OLD ADAM, 


sional onslaught on Christianitv, and called upon Cardinal Jacobini, 
the Papal Secretary of State, whom she endeavored to convince of the 
virtues of the Emancipation Waist. She had the brilliant idea that if 
she could obtain the endorsement of the Vatican for her invention and 
get it introduced in the convents it would be a magnificent advertise- 
ment. If she should succeed in using the tremendous machinery of 
the Roman Church for her sanitary propaganda, she might securely 
repose upon her laurels, knowing that her cause would triumph. She 
was positive that she had made an impression upon the cardinal, and 
wrote an enthusiastic letter about him to the ‘^Woman’s New Era.’^ 
But all her hopes were dashed to the ground when in the second or 
third interview he informed her that his interest was wholly unof- 
ficial, and that moreover her invention would be of no use in the 
convents, as nuns did not wear corsets. This was a crushing blow, 
from which it would have taken another some time to recover. But 
Delia was of a sanguine temperament and constitutionally irrepressible. 
She lost her respect for the Catholic Church, to be sure, of which she 
had recently been inclined to take a favorable view, and held it now 
responsible for all the ills and misfortunes of man. But she looked 
the world in the face with the same bold and cheery disrespect as be- 
fore, and presented outwardly an aggressive front to all the shams 
which she persisted in detecting all about her. The only one whom 
she allowed to suspect that she had lost heart was Sir Percy. 

It was wonderful how the eccentric baronet had gain^ her confi- 
dence. He had quite ceased to apologize for her now, nor did he say, 
as before, that she amused him, but he allowed the world to talk, and 
frankly acknowledged the charm of her companionship. Their first 
serious rapprochement took place during Talbot’s illness after his amatory 
sufferings and his frustrated duel with Count de Saint-Reault. Delia 
then descended uninvited upon the Palazzo Altemps, put the wretched 
Roman nurse to flight, and assumed sole charge, basing her right upon 
a mythical friendship which had existed nowhere but in her own im- 
agination. Talbot was then so low that both the Italian and the Eng- 
lish doctor thought his chances of recovery scarcely worth considering. 
It was an acute case of Roman fever, they said, contracted by the 
usual imprudence of Americans. Sir Percy, who had grown very fond 
of the young man, walked about the house like an uneasy ghost, 
scolded the servants, poked the fire vindictively, found his tea, his beef- 
steak, and his wines abominable, and exhibited other symptoms of 
distress. He could have embraced Delia when she came like an impu- 
dent angel and reliev^ him of all responsibility. She knew exactly the 
right thing to do, and seemed to bristle all over with competence. Her 
very presence in the sick-room seemed to charge the air with an invigor- 
ating quality which communicated itself to the invalid. Though he had 
no sentimental regard for her whatever, he was inclined to attribute a 
healing virtue to her touch. Her cool, soft hand upon his forehead 
felt inexpressibly grateful, and the brisk and efficient way in which she 
performed all the little offices for his comfort made him do penance in 
his heart for his past conduct toward her. He dimly apprehended (as 
soon as his consciousness reasserted itself) that his recovery was a ques- 


THE OLD ADAM. 


629 


tion of nursing rather than of medicine ; and he knew, too, that the 
Italian nurse, who had slept peacefully through the night after having 
commended him to the protection of all the saints, had thrown his 
clothes upon the bed, in anticipation of his death, because, according to 
Italian custom, whatever is found upon the bed at the time of the de- 
mise is given to the nurse. It w’as not pleasant to feel one^s life ebbing 
away among such harpies, and the mere sense of security inspired by 
a familiar face and a familiar voice was a more powerful restorative 
than all the drugs in the materia medica. 

It was odd that none of those who knew the fair pagan attributed 
her invasion of the Palazzo Altemps to a desire to fascinate Sir Percy. 
It seemed inconceivable that a young lady who found her chief amuse- 
ment in shocking people, and who never made the faintest concession 
to the world^s prejudices, should be setting her cap for anybody. 
Even Mrs. Douglas, who was not given to be lenient in her judgments, 
could find nothing worse to say than that it was the alluring impro- 
priety of the thing which had fascinated her. To descend, uninvited, 
upon two unprotected gentlemen, take full charge of their affairs, and 
rule them with a rod of iron, — it was just the sort of thing wdiich 
would appeal to her lawless and erratic fancy. It was a practical dem- 
onstration of woman’s superiority which no man in his sound senses 
could deny. 

What Sir Percy’s sentiments were on the subject no one had the 
courage to ascertain, as he had taken care to drop some remarks which 
made it unsafe henceforth to speak lightly of Miss Saunders in his 
presence. He treated her with the most delicate consideration while 
she remained under his roof, and would have offered her a permanent 
abode there, with all the privileges and immunities that thereunto ap- 
pertained, if the occasion had not seemed a trifle inappropriate. The 
bed in which the patient lay was a great mediaeval affair of carved oak, 
with Adam and Eve and the Serpent in bold relief, and a canopy with 
heavy drapery overhead. It stood in the middle of the floor on a 
raised dais, like a royal couch, and had two steps leading up to it. Sir 
Percy liked to sit on one side of it and watch Delia’s plump and cheer- 
ful face, illuminated by the lamp and her fearless blue eyes, which 
seemed to challenge creation in general. He had never enjoyed such 
familiar companionship with a woman before, and had never suspected 
that such funds of sentiment were stowed away in the out-of-the-way 
nooks and corners of his soul. He had been disposed to look upon 
himself as a constitutional bachelor, — one of nature’s bachelors, as he 
was fond of saying, — and had contracted all the habits and eccen- 
tricities which belong to that unsatisfactory estate. The only senti- 
mental episode in his life had been his worship of Constance Douglas, 
who had been unkind enough to refuse him. But it appeared to him 
now that he had never really loved Constance. He had a boundless ad- 
miration for her, a worshipful loyalty and enthusiasm, but scarcely any 
tenderness. She always dwelt, like Saint Simeon Stylites, on the top 
of a lofty pedestal, and allowed no one to come close enough to her to 
feel the warm touch of human sympathy and love. He concluded that 
a less statuesque bride might bring him more happiness, and with every 


630 


THE OLD ADAM. 


day that went he became more convinced that Delia Saunders, if she 
could be induced to exchange her deplorable name for that of Lady 
Armitage, might make a very acceptable English gentlewoman. He 
had the delicacy, however, not to give Delia any direct hint of the 
thoughts which agitated him while she was his guest, but was content 
to make himself preternatural ly agreeable, hoping that she might draw 
her inferences. It is not at all unlikely that Delia did have lier suspi- 
cions as to the motive of Sir Percy’s amiability ; but, if such was the 
case, they in no wise influenced her conduct. She was as cheerfully 
combative as ever, and asserted her heretical opinions with a courageous 
disregard of their effect upon her interlocutor. 

I must lead my own life,’^ was the refrain of all her conversation : 
“ I cannot, without loss of self-respect and injury to my character, lead 
your life or anybody else’s life. 1 am Delia Saunders, and when John 
Smith comes to me and asks me to be Delia Smith, I answer, ‘ No, 
thanks, John, not unless you choose to be John Saundei’s. Exchange 
is no robbery. If it is a mutual compact we are making, and you in- 
sist upon my giving up my name and taking yours, I want you to do 
as much for me.’ That’s what John doesn’t like, and off he goes in a 
huff* and marries a little meek nobody, who has no individuality to 
give up, and whose charming little soft and dimpled nothingness is 
contentedly absorbed in his life and sacrificed to his pleasures. That is 
the scheme of creation, Sir Percy, and I don’t mind telling you that I 
don’t approve of it. You know, though I was boro in Indiana, I am 
a very considerable somebody, and am determined, first of all, to be 
fully myself. I am a very positive bundle of qualities, some of which 
might prove an unpleasant discovery to the man who had the boldness 
to marry me, when, the day after the wedding, I untied my bundle and 
began to exhibit them, one by one.” 

It is needless to say that Sir Percy found this discourse extremely 
amusing, and in the depths of his masculine self-confidence vowed that, 
if she gave him the chance, he would teach her better things. He 
had an idea that Delia’s convictions sat very lightly upon her and w’ere 
held partly for their picturesqueness. A firm masculine hand (such as 
he prided himself on possessing) could, as he imagined, easily weed 
them out. She was a woman, after all, however much she ap|>eared 
to protest against the fact, and in all fundamental qualities was not 
different from the rest of her sex. The longer he gazed at her fresh 
and altogether girlish face, whose beauty was heightened by the sub- 
dued light of the sick-room, the more he was disposed to overlook the 
unpalatable circumstances in her career and emphasize the essential 
human traits to w’hich there could be no objection. He could not deny 
that the Emancipation Waist and her lecturing for temperance did not 
please him ; but what was the advantage, after all, in having an exalted 
position and a superior intellect, if they did not raise him above the 
vulgar prejudices which dominated the mob? He had, as he well 
knew, a reputation for eccentricity. People rather expected him to do 
odd things, and if he surprised them by an odd marriage they would 
accept it as a confirmation of their own judgment of him and as an 
evidence of his consistency. 


THE OLD ADAM. 


631 


It was a severe blow to Sir Percy when Talbot began to mend so 
rapidly as to furnish no further excuse for the presence of his enter- 
taining nurse. She was herself the first to perceive that the situation 
no longer warranted her in remaining, and no persuasions could induce 
her to change her mind. Neither Talbot’s prayers nor Sir Percy’s ar- 
guments were of the slightest avail. She donned one of her rakish hats 
with smiling composure, fixed it at the right angle before the mirror, 
patted Talbot on the head as if he were a little boy, and slapped Sir 
Percy lightly with her glove when he ventured to compliment her on 
her appearance. There was nothing for tlie latter to do but to order 
his carriage and to accompany her in state to her lodgings on the 
Piazza di Spagna. Talbot wept a few furtive tears when she was gone, 
only to give vent to his feeling of desolation and general wretchedness. 
When he tried to lift his hand to his face it felt large, clumsy, and 
heavy as lead. He took a few tentative steps about the room, with the 
assistance of Watkins, but the soles of his feet seemed full of tiny 
needles, which pricked and tickled him, and his knees were so weak 
that they knocked against each other like those of a new-born calf. 
Having finished this hazardous journey, he begged Watkins, in a 
hushed and tremulous voice, to bring him the portrait of Miss Douglas 
which stood on the table in Sir Percy’s library. It was touching to 
see how his emaciated features lighted up at the sight of the beautiful 
face, and how, like a Brahmin lost in divine contemplation, he drifted 
away in blissful revery from the consciousness of all earthly sin and 
care and sorrow. Unresentingly, uncomplainingly, he resumed his wor- 
ship of the goddess who had undone him. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A HOSTILE ENCOUNTER. 

The tramontane had been blowing steadily for a month, and there 
were health and vigor in its breath. The winter slipped away like a 
pleasant tale that is told. The cold, bright sunshine poured down in 
divine profusion from the sky. The deep azure canopy of the heavens 
was fringed at dawn with a pale rose and at evening with a pale saffron 
edge. It seemed as if no sorrow could endure the gaze of that clear, 
undimmed sun, as if no heart could be heavy where the earth and the 
sky united in an irresistible invitation to be gay. And yet there was 
misery in the Eternal City that winter, and doubly acute for its con- 
trast with Nature’s smiling countenance. Talbot, after he had re- 
covered sufficient strength to resume his interest in life, went about 
with a dull heart-ache, wondering how the world could revolve so 
gayly and the sun shine so blithely while he was so drearily wretched. 
The Count de Saint- Reault, too, had acquired a lugubrious mien of 
late, and there were those who asserted that his wooing no longer went 
as smoothly as before. However that may have been, it was unde- 
niable that he no longer cruised as breezily along, with all his sails to 
the wind, as in the early part of the winter, and there was less rattle 
and clicking of metal and creaking of leather when he entered a 


632 


THE OLD ADAM. 


drawing-room. The scabbard of his sword knocked less recklessly 
against the furniture, the jingle of his spurs sounded less aggressive, and 
even his well-waxed moustache had lost its beautiful needle-points and 
drooped in a dispirited fashion. It was by no means the count’s inten- 
tion to advertise his reverses, but he was so constituted that he could 
not keep up the lustre of his outward magnificence unless he felt the 
inward stimulus of success. He had always been the spoiled child of 
Fortune,— had always basked in the rays of prosperity, flattery, and 
general admiration. And now to think that the lady whom he had 
honored with his homage could in pure wantonness maltreat him, pre- 
ferring to his company that of a hare-brained religious fanatic ! The 
count had had an experience which, two months ago, he would have 
declared to be simply impossible. He had presented himself three 
times in the same week at the Douglas apartment, and each time been 
told that Miss Douglas was not at home, although he had watchal the 
house for hours and seen her enter without again departing. He had 
seen the odious Burroughs ascend and descend the broad stone stair- 
case and remain for hours within the shelter of those walls which he 
strove in vain to penetrate. And, what was far worse, he noted, with a 
Frenchman’s eye for detail, how the gaunt fanatic was blooming out 
into health and joy and by some mysterious process becoming rejuve- 
nated, secularized, and civilized. He noticed with bitterness that his 
rival wore better clothes than before, — nothing striking or elaborate, to 
be sure, but yet exhibiting a subdued aspiration toward modishness. 
His hair and beard, too, were neatly trimmed, and the old clerical 
shovel-hat had been superseded by a high-crowned Derby which was 
quite becoming. 

The count was not enough of a psychologist to interpret the full 
meaning of this transformation ; but he was clever enough to infer that 
the man had gained an influence over CoOvStance by means of religion 
and while endeavoring to assert it had himself fallen a victim to her 
charms. He would scarcely have blamed him for that, if he had been 
an eligible parti whom a rival could challenge and shoot, or be shot 
by, — who accepted the code of honor and was willing to abide by the 
fortunes of battle. But this anomalous person, who was neither a 
priest nor a layman, neither a gentleman nor exactly a cad, — how to 
pick a quarrel with him without in some way compromising one’s self 
was a matter which the count found much difficulty in deciding. 

The obnoxious Burroughs, in the mean while, was too happy to 
sacrifice a single thought on possible rivals. He had discovered some- 
where in the recesses of his nature a strong and deep appetite for joy, 
which seemed the direct antithesis to his former zeal in self-torture, but 
which was perhaps, after all, the same thing. He had been taught that 
all joy was sinful, and that God demanded mortification of the flesh. 
There were in his early years no pleasures that appealed to him within 
his reach, but abundant opportunities for martyrdom. There is to 
strong natures an ecstasy of pain which is to them preferable to dull 
indifference and tame comfort. People called Burroughs ill-balanced 
because he was never in a normal frame of mind, but always swing- 
ing from one extreme of emotion to its opposite. His father had been 


THE OLD ADAM. 


633 


given to strong drink, and the son had been born with a predisposition 
to intemperance. He had inherited disordered nerves, which responded 
with a thousand vibrations to the shock which in normal beings pro- 
duces but a hundred. Had he been born in a community where religion 
was less of a vital influence than it was in the pioneer settlement 
where he first saw the light, he would inevitably have gone to destruc- 
tion. He had a deep fund of vitality in him, in spite of his nervous 
excitability, and a primeval vigor drawn from generations of sturdy 
farmers and backwoodsmen ; and it was this rough vigor which, mani- 
festing itself in word and gesture, made him impressive, — which kindled 
the fire in his eye and gave the ring of authority to his voice. It was 
that which gave him his power over Constance, and which, like im- 
prisoned steam seeking an outlet, broke loose now in passionate joy, 
now in self-accusation and prayer. 

The devil rose again from the abysses of the young ascetic’s soul 
and tempted him ; and the voice of conscience, which once cried so 
loud, grew feebler and feebler, and at times was silenced. Why did 
such an inexpressible well-being come over him whenever he entered 
that bright, softly-draped salon, where the pagan love-gods danced 
along the walls and flung their chubby legs about and found life all 
laughter and roses? Why was he not part of this laughing and rosy 
world ? Why was he of all men doomed to gloom, deprivation, and 
suffering? It seemed no longer a sufficient reply that he wwild have 
abundant reward in the hereafter. His heart cried out for light and 
joy now, — now while the hot blood was surging through it, fraught 
with ineffable desires. He was to save this woman’s soul, in sooth ! God 
had called him to do it. Ah, ecstatically he would have doomed his 
own to perdition and counted it no loss, if he could have broken down 
every barrier that separated them, and danced away like those delicious, 
irresponsible Cupids, through a brief span of years, each entwined in 
the other’s arms, in an intoxication of joy, until they sank wearily 
together into the gloom of the all-engulfing night. 

It was one day late in March, when the month had shaken off the 
last chill of winter, that Nathaniel Burroughs, according to his wont, 
was ascending with a loudly-beating heart the familiar staircase of the 
Palazzo Barberini. Though it was the fiftieth time, at the very least, 
that he pulled the embroidered, brass-handled bell-cord, his pulses 
bounded like those of a lover stealing to the secret rendezvous. The 
door was opened by the French chambermaid Hortense, who made no 
concealment of the displeasure she felt at the sight of him. In the 
inner drawing-room — a large, high-ceiled room, whose palatial barren- 
ness was softened and relieved by an abundance of costly bric-a-brac 
and rich-colored rugs and draperies — he found Constance awaiting him. 
She advanced with an eagerness half out of keeping with her stately 
self, and extended both her hands to him. 

You look well to-day, Mr. Burroughs,” she said, looking into his 
face with frank pleasure. 

I am well,” he answered, simply ; but you, Miss Constance, is it 
well with you ?” 

He was going to speak to her of her soul, yielding to the insistent 


634 


THE OLD ADAM. 


voice of his conscience. But an unconquerable repugnance to taking 
the name of God upon his lips restrained him. He dropped her hands 
as if they had been hot coals, and, turning away from her, walked across 
the floor. It was marvellous to see the change which had come over 
him. He stooped no longer, but flung his head back and thrust his 
broad breast forward. It was as if a contagion of life and youth and 
health had communicated itself from her to him. He felt his rebellious 
blood bound in his veins. In his eye burned no longer the flicker- 
ing, dusky flame, but a clear and steady fire, kindled from the bright 
torch of day. His strong, well-trimmed beard curled densely about his 
chin and cheeks, and his hair, shorn of its exuberance, showed the 
massive shape of his head. If he was not a handsome man, he was, 
beyond dispute, an extremely impressive one. 

‘‘ Miss Constance,’’ he said, pausing in his march, and regarding her 
with an intense satisfaction, I am — oh, my God, I don’t know what 
I am !” he exclaimed, shaking his head, clinching his fists, and straight- 
ening his arms convulsively. 

You are good and kind,” she answered, beaming upon him with 
her radiant smile. 

Oh, no, child, don’t you believe it,” he burst forth, vehemently. 
I am not good and kind. I am desperately wicked.” 

You have been good and kind to me,” she affirmed, with the same 
sweet, confident smile. 

Have I ? Oh, you poor deluded girl ! You do not know me ! 
You do not know me !” 

I know that your standard of goodness is so high that it is vain 
for us weaker mortals to try and reach it. Your ideal is so lofty that 
it does not surprise me that you fall below your own expectations.” 

God forgive her, for she does not know what she says,” he mur- 
mured, and resumed his restless march. 

It was no new thing for them to talk in this strain. Of late he 
had taken to accusing himself of all kinds of wickedness, and she had 
naturally defended him against his own accusations. It was such a 
luxury of delight to be defended by her. Her eyes followed him as 
he paced up and down the floor, and there was a touching submissive- 
ness and joy in them, as of some Biblical handmaiden who watched 
for the commands of her beloved master. It seemed scarcely the same 
Constance as of old : the lines of her face had acquired a new emotional 
mobility, and in her voice there were sweet cadences and intonations 
which almost brought the tears to one’s eyes. Some would have said. 
How have the mighty fallen !” But Burroughs exclaimed, with no 
less truth, How wondrous are thy works, O Lord !” 

When he had walkal up and down for some minutes, stopping 
every now and then to feast liis eyes upon her loveliness, she went to 
the window and opened a single pane in it. A breath of warm, moist, 
aromatic air poured in, and filled the room with a penetrating fragrance. 

‘‘ I feel so deliciously weary !” ejaculated Burroughs, flinging him- 
self, with an abandon of which four months ago he would have been 
incapable, upon a plush-covered lounge. 

Let me bring you some lemonade,” she said, eagerly. 


THE OLD ADAM. 


636 


Oh, no ; it isn^t necessary/^ 

But she had already risen and liad rung the bell. Hortense ap- 
peared, and made a grimace as she dropped her courtesy and departed. 
She objected to waiting on Burroughs, who gave her no tips, and whose 
attractions she accordingly held to be inferior to those of Count de 
Saint-R4au!t. 

Constance and her visitor sat for a while in silence, awaiting her 
return. There was something so warm, soft, caressing, and yet subtly 
stimulating in the air that blew in through the open window. They 
breathed more deeply, and there was a vague oppression in the fra- 
grance, and a misty veil of indistinctness fell upon their thoughts. 
When Hortense made her entrance with the lemonade, Constance arose 
quietly, took the pitcher, and poured out a glass for her guest. He 
grasped it eagerly, and jumped up to resume his march, as soon as he 
had drained the goblet. There was a restrained energy in his step, like 
that of a caged animal. She crossed the floor and sat down upon the 
lounge between the windows. The breeze blew a loose lock of hair 
across her forehead, and the sunshine, falling upon her hand as she 
raised it, showed her fingers in rosy translucence. She lapsed into an 
exquisite languor; her eyes seemed fixed on vacancy; but her face 
grew bright and sweet, and its beauty shone witli a soft splendor. He 
paced the floor uneasily as before, scarcely daring to look at her. He 
had never dreamed that an eartlily creature could be so divinely fair. 
He tried to murmur a prayer, but could find no words. It seemed 
a hollow, abominable mockery. In his ascetic creed of renunciation, 
love, however innocent, was disloyalty to God, and therefore a sin. 
God claimed his whole heart, and would not be content with a frag- 
ment. And yet what was the use of disguising it ? He loved, he 
adored, he worshipped, this woman. His soul was lost in her as in a 
strong intoxication, and he had no thought or wish or feeling apart 
from her. He had awakened her, transformed her : why, then, should 
she not be his ? She loved him, too ; he could not doubt it. Her great 
innocent soul, single and pure like that of a Greek goddess, bent toward 
him as a flower bends toward the sun. 

But his priesthood ! He had now twice postponed his ordination. 
He had accepted the financial aid of the Church while preparing him- 
self for the sacred office. His father confessor, noting his shy reticence, 
suspected already his backsliding, and what one priest knew all priests 
knew. What fate was in store for him if he threw his obligations to 
the winds and listened to the voice of his heart? Ah, but here was 
the cup of joy held close — so close — to his burning lips, and he was 
panting to drain it to the dregs ! The mere sight of her was perpetual 
delight, and to touch her was delirious rapture. Had he the strength 
to face the dreariness, the barrenness, of a life-long renunciation? Was 
life worth having at such a price? What was there left of him if his 
love of her were taken away? A handful of gray, shivering ashes. 
All the strength of his vehement nature, which formerly had expended 
itself in an enthusiasm of renunciation, had now burst into a sudden 
exuberant bloom of love. It had rushed into a new channel, leaving 
its old channel dry. 


636 


THE OLD ADAM. 


I do not pretend, of course, that he analyzed himself with the in- 
sight displayed by his self-constituted biographer. He knew only that 
an incomprehensible transformation had taken place within him, but he 
did not know — nay, scarcely cared — how and why. But yet he fought 
a battle, — thought dim thoughts, cried dimly for light and strength, and 
struggled confusedly with wild temptations. He did not rush lightly 
like a young pagan into the arms of the beloved, but he stumbled 
painfully along, wrestling with phantoms that barred his way, falling 
and rising again. 

Several minutes had elapsed, and no sound was heard in the large 
room, except the ticking of a pink porcelain mantel-clock. Constance and 
Burroughs knew each other so well that they could without embarrass- 
ment be silent together. A sort of enchantment had come over her, 
and she could have been blissfully quiescent for hours, while his eyes 
rested upon her. He sat down after a while on the sofa, some distance 
away from her, and drew a deep breath. She had taken a bunch of 
Jacqueminot roses which stood in a vase on the console-table under 
the mirror, and, after having pressed them against her face, reached 
them to him. He stretched out his hand, half mechanically, to receive 
them. 

Smell them,^^ she said. Aren’t they superb ?” 

He leaned over and buried his nose in the bouquet, clasping his 
hands on the outside of hers. At the touch of her warm, soft skin he 
shivered. His eyes glided gradually from her hands upward to her 
face, and rested there with a glance which was bright and tender. 

Oh, Constance, Constance !” he cried, flinging his arms about her 
with irresistible vehemence, I could devour you !” 

She yielded to his embrace almost passively, as the ripe fruit falls 
from the bough, smiling at him with large moist eyes, and heaving a 
long, ecstatic, tremulous sigh. 

Speak to me, speak to me!” he whispered; tell me that you love 

me !” 

She opened her lips as if to speak, but said nothing. But her head 
sank upon his shoulder, and he felt her hair graze his cheeks. It 
seemed so wonderful, so wildly and utterly inconceivable. Those great 
bright coils of blond hair with the burnished sheen in them, — to have 
them so close, to inhale their delicious perfume, — it lifted his life 
for evermore and invested it with a new, joyous dignity. And that 
neck, how touchingly feminine it was, with its white slenderness, and 
the deep groove under the occiput, where the fine loose hair grew in 
capricious little glistening curls. How could life ever lapse into its 
former insignificance after a moment like this ? 

I do not know how long they stood thus silently, lost in joyous 
contemplation of each other. There was a glad and confiding affection 
in her glance which thrilled him and aroused a host of good resolves 
in his heart. He would work for her, he would bear her lovingly 
through life upon tender hands, and rise to something great — he did 
not know what — by the inspiration of her companionship. This 
thought kindled again his courage, and he seized her face between his 
hands and reverently kissed her. 


THE OLD ADAM. 637 

Something fell with a little thump on the floor^ as he unclasped his 
hands : it was the Jacqueminot roses. 

Ah, my poor flowers ! You have crushed them,’^ she murmured, 
with a shade of regret, as she regarded the scarlet heap of crumbled and 
broken petals. 

He stooped to pick them up, but remained resting on one bended 
knee, gazing up into her face like an ecstatic worshipper at the feet of 
the Madonna. 

Oh, God he cried, hiding his face in his hands, I am not 
worthy of you ! I am not worthy of you 

An hour later, when the sun had dipped behind the cupola of St. 
Peter^s, Nathaniel Burroughs emerged from the vestibule on the third 
floor of the Palazzo Barberini happy and radiant, like a young god. 
His eyes sparkled, and he held his head high, as if he felt the pressure 
of an invisible crown. There was buoyancy in his stride, and he 
struck his heels against the marble stairs with a vigor which was any- 
thing but clerical. He had descended a score of steps, and had passed 
the niche in which a young Bacchus stands, when he saw another figure 
ascending from below and steering straight against him. He recog- 
nized vaguely Count de Saint-R6auit, but had to take a second look to 
convince himself that it was he. The count was, contrary to his recent 
custom, arrayed in all his regalia, and he creaked and clicked and glit- 
tered, as he moved, like a peripatetic arsenal. His features were a 
trifle pale, but calm and determined. Without the least flurry or ex- 
citement he approached the American, meeting him face to face on the 
landing. He stopped with military precision, so that the little wheels 
on his spurs spun around for a few seconds with an angry jingle. He 
stared at the guileless Westerner with a perfectly expressionless eye, 
threw back his cloak, so as to disengage his arm, and pulled olf his 
right glove. Burroughs, thinking that he meant to shake hands with 
him, extended his own hand, and from the height of his happiness 
looked, not with triumph, but with kindly commiseration, upon his 
discomfited rival. In the same instant a clinched fist was planted on 
his forehead, sparks danced before his eyes, and he reeled backward, 
striking his head against the edge of the marble step. A ruddy stream 
trickled down over the white stone, consciousness left him, he lay as 
one dead. 

Hound of a priest !’’ muttered the Gaul under his breath, and, 
with the same stately composure, mounted to the head of the stairs, 
rang the bell, and was admitted by Hortense. 


CHAPTER XII. 

OH, BEAUTIFUL FAITH! 

American reputations, as we all know, have to be made in Eng- 
land if they are literary, in France if they are artistic. It is only our 
political reputations which we make at home. The rising celebrity to 
which I am about to refer was a pictorial one, and accordingly had to 
compete for Parisian laurels. It was in the Salon of 188-, three years 
VoL. XLI.— 41 


638 


THE OLD ADAM, 


after the occiiiTences narrated in the last chapter, that George Talbot 
succeeded in attracting the attention of tlie august personages wlio 
preside over artistic destinies. All his friends, except Sir Percy and 
Lady Armitage, nee Saunders, who both regarded him as a prodigy, 
propliesied failure unless he dined the critics of the most influential 
journals or provided bacchanals a la fourchette with champagne and 
sirens from the Op6ra Bouffe after the inspection of the pictures on 
Varnishing Night. The young man, impractical as ever, declared, 
with much heated rhetoric, that he refused to sneak into the temple of 
Fame by a back door ; and his friends retorted derisively that he would 
remain forever a sojourner on the staircase, a perennial candidate, per- 
ennially shut out. But they changed their tune when the Figaro, the 
Jommal des DebaU, and Le Temps pronounced his two canvases, En- 
chantment’’ and flenunciation,” the most notable pictures of the Ex- 
hibition. Neither seemed in the least ambitious. Any one but a con- 
noisseur would have passed them by. One represented a blond young 
woman in a Greek shepherdess costume seated on a rock, while a young 
man, lying on the ground, w^as gazing with a rapt look into her coun- 
tenance. This countenance was, as a piece of pictorial individualiza- 
tion, simply marvellous. Never was the soul of an enchantress more 
subtly and yet more nobly conceived. It was not a coquette, not a 
shallow siren, but a great, passionate, yet innocent woman, the embodi- 
ment of some grandly mysterious force of nature, wielding a power 
which she did not herself comprehend. And yet every feature was so 
clearly and definitely modelled, and the individuality so complete and 
so penetrating, that it haunted the mind like an importunate melody. 
The landscape, too, with the goats and sheep and heathery hill -slopes, 
had the same exactness, the same convincing veracity in every detail. 
^^It told its geological history as plainly as does Nature herself, and 
might,” said the Figaro, give points to the botanist.” 

The picture entitled Renunciation” was of a wholly different char- 
acter. It represented a narrow Roman street by night, through wdnch 
a funeral was passing. Priests and penitents, carrying burning tapers, 
were walking behind the coffin, chanting their lugubrious chants. In 
the front row a strong, emaciated face was seen lighted up by a taper, 
and a pair of dark eyes flashed forth from under the cowl with a glance 
of despairing recognition at a lady who stood on the sidewalk. They 
were so close to each other that they could clasp hands. The yet unsub- 
dued spirit, the old Adam locked in mortal combat with the new Adam, 
the hopeless impassioned cry for life and joy and love, it was all ex- 
])ressed, and potently expressed, in that glance. Of the lady’s face so 
little was seen that her emotion could only be conjectured. But the 
story was trenchantly told, and the tremendous energy of suffering in 
the priest’s features revealed (to quote Figaro once more) the painter 
as a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief.” It was all so per- 
sonal, so acutely felt and unerringly accentuated. It is needless to say 
that the priest was Nathaniel Burroughs. It was known that he had 
joined the order of the Carthusians, and was attracting attention even 
in that austere brotherhood by his zeal in fasting and prayer and self- 
inflicted torture. He saw visions of ecstasy and of horror, and it was 


THE OLD ADAM. 039 

whispered that upon his hands and feet the Saviour^s stigmata had ap- 
peared. But to the world he was dead. 

It was in the first flush of his triumph, while he never took up 
a journal without expecting to find some mention of his name, that 
George Talbot leaped up the familiar staircase of the Palazzo Bar- 
berini and, after having rung the door-bell twice, plunged through the 
tawny drapery into the Benaissance salon. He expected, of course, to 
compose his soul in patience, knowing that he would have to wait. 
But he had scarcely had time to realize that he had not seen Constance 
for two years, not since he became the accidental witness of the episode 
perpetuated in his picture, when the portihre was drawn aside and she 
sto(^ before him. The tears dimmed his eyes as he seized the hand 
she held out to him, and gazed with friendly solicitude into her face. 
Was this the same Constance whom he had worshipped with the 
desire of the moth for the staP^ ? She was indeed beautiful yet ; she 
could nev’^er be anything but beautiful. But there was a touching 
quality in her beauty, and a new, strangely moving note in her voice, 
which did not belong to the enchantress of old. She was dressed with 
extreme care, but in rather subdued colors. She impressed his vision 
as a soft, rich minor chord impresses the ear. There was a weary look 
in her eyes, and round about them Father Time had made just the 
faintest annotations to mark his sneaking progress. Those ravishing 
lips (which had once been his despair) had preserved their exquisite 
curve, but they had lost something of their superb ^Gntangibility.^^ 
They seemed almost appealing, but their faint sad smile was still in- 
expressibly sweet. 

It is a long time since we have met. Miss Douglas,^^ he said, in 
his heartiest tones. I hope you have not entirely forgotten me 

When friends are few one does not forget them,^^ she answered, a 
little vaguely. 

Pray do not speak of me in the plural he exclaimed. Why 
not rather say, ^ When a friend is true I do not forget him’ ?” 

As you like,” she answered, with a little sigh, but you have be- 
come a famous man, Mr. Talbot, and I did not know how far I might 
presume upon a former friendship.” 

It was hard to tell why that remark, half smilingly uttered, seemed 
so sad. It was so unlike the stately Constance he had known with the 
world at her feet. There was not the faintest tinge of bitterness in it, 
but it was, like her face and her whole personality, in the minor key. 
And it was that transition perhaps from the major to the minor key 
which aroused all the loyalty and tenderness in his heart. Ilie old love, 
like smouldering embers hidden in ashes, began to send forth little 
ruddy jets of flame. He knew well that it had never been dead ; but 
while it burned with volcanic rage it had made him insane and useless. 
Now it dominated him no longer, but he dominated it. It had intensi- 
fied his personality, awakened all the latent forces of his nature, and 
given him a new view of life. It had been his inspiration, his salva- 
tion. 

I hope Sir Percy and Lady Armitage are well ?” she said, after 
the exchange of the usual civilities and inauiries regarding health and 


640 


THE OLD ADAM. 


news. I am told they have opened the house at Donnymere, and that 
Sir Percy has become a country gentleman.^’ 

‘^Yes, since his son was born he has sold his collection of shells, 
given up his eccentricities, and become the most devoted and chivalrous 
of husbands. It was Lady Percy who made him stand for Parliament ; 
and there are even those who say it was she who elected him. At all 
events, she developed a positive genius for electioneering. But it is 
told as a joke that in return for the concession she made in becoming 
Lady Armitage, without insisting upon his becoming Mr. Saunders, he 
had to assume her politics, and I half suspect that when her son grows 
up she will, in pure self-defence, have to assume his. Sir Percy, you 
know, was formerly a Tory, but she has made him a Liberal.^^ 

wish you would give them both my kindest regards. Apropos 
of Lady Armitage I cannot help telling you something which quite 
touched me. When she became engaged to Sir Percy, three years ago, 
they came here to call upon me. On the way Sir Percy indiscreetly 
confessed that he had once made me an offer of marriage, whereupon 
Miss Saunders promptly sent him home and called upon me alone. She 
talked about everything under the sun ; but, although she was dying to 
say something about her engagement, she departed without having al- 
luded to the all-absorbing topic. I was not well at that time, and she 
feared that she might in some way hurt my feelings.’^ 

Mrs. Douglas, who had grown old and paralytic since Talbot last 
saw her, was wheeled into the room in an invalid’s chair, and stayed for 
an hour. She complimented Talbot upon his appearance, his success, 
and his fidelity to old friends, and finally urged him to stay to dinner. 

The meal was served in a small, boudoir-like room painted a warm 
red, with a procession of naked genii laden with culinary dainties 
dancing along the frieze. An aged and solemn butler, who served 
simultaneously in two families, moved noiselessly about the table and 
uncovered the dishes. The conversation, which was kept up from a 
sense of duty, acquired an air of conscious futility. Talbot yearned to 
be alone with Constance and pour out his heart before her. He longed 
to know her troubles, her hopes, her wishes. As he sat opposite to her 
at the table and saw the shaded candle-light upon her noble face, and 
heard her soft, sweet voice, all the chords in his breast which had long 
been mute began again to vibrate. Whatever she said, her words 
touched some new stop and opened a new flood-gate of pent-up feeling. 
It was not because she was still beautiful, nor because she was noble 
and accomplished, that he loved her, but because she was Constance 
Douglas, the woman who had humiliated him and exalted him, who 
had been his misery and his happiness, who with a listless hand had 
struck the keys of his nature and drawn from them a storm of discords 
which was now being lulled into harmony. 

After dinner, Mrs. Douglas begged to be excused, and was wheeled 
back into her sleeping-room. Talbot, after having bidden her good- 
night, followed Constance into the drawing-room. The air was warm, 
and the moonlight was pouring in through the large windows. 

Ah, this is glorious !” he exclaimed. Do not let us have any 
lamps. Let us luxuriate for a while in this delicious twilight.” 


THE OLD ADAM, 


641 


She made a sign to the butler, who was entering with two lamps, and 
he retired, leaving them together in the moonlight. They went to a 
window and looked out upon the Eternal City, with its towers and 
cupolas emerging out of the soft dimness. The mingled perfumes of 
roses and orange-blossoms were wafted up to them from the garden 
below. The stone-pines and ilexes stood veiled in shining mists, like 
stately ghosts wrapping their shrouds about them. Far away a melo- 
dious church-bell began to tinkle with a faint, clear sound; and when 
it ceased, a bird began to warble down in the orange-trees. All the 
world lay steeped in a soft, magical radiance, like a bright, blissful 
dream. 

^^Ah, it is sweet to live he whispered, letting his glance range 
over the moon-flooded landscape. 

There was a time when 1 thought so,^^ she answered, with that 
little intangible sigh which was like a vague undertone in her 
speech. 

He did not say, ^^Why do you think so no longer?’^ but he 
looked at her with a sympathetic regret in which there was a touch of 
compassion. 

Life in Rome is always worth living,^^ he said, after a pause. 

Not always.^^ 

But with one who loves you, — who has loved you from the first 
moment he saw you, — who would do everything in his power to make 
you happy, would it not be worth living 

Perhaps.^^ 

And if such a one now begged you to share his life with him, 
what would you say to him f’ 

She gazed up into his face with large, lustrous eyes, in which the 
tears glistened. 

Mr. Talbot,^^ she said, with a tremor in her voice, you are too 
young and too good a man to throw away your love upon a woman 
whose life has already been lived, — who cannot give you back what 
you offer her.^^ 

But I am so made, Constance, that I need you to fill out my 
existence. I will not say that I cannot live without you ; but fully, 
richly, happily I cannot live.’^ 

She stood silent for some moments, and her pure, noble face, touched 
with the pallor of the moon, seemed to him wondrously sweet and pa- 
thetic. He was yearning to clasp her impetuously in his arms ; but 
there was something in her reserve which he was impelled to respect. 
Suddenly she turned away from him, went to the piano and opened it. 
She struck the keys softly, and wandered away in a musing prelude, 
which gradually gathered into the exquisitely sad and tender melody 
of Elaine^s Song of Love and Death f ’ 

‘‘ Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain, 

And sweet is death who puts an end to pain : 

I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death must be : 

Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me. 

Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die.’’ 


642 


THE OLD ADAM. 


He stood again at her side, and felt, with a subdued agitation, the bliss 
of being near her, of having won her confidence, of having the privi- 
lege of sharing her troubles. She had been out in the storm ; he was 
the rescuer who would bring her back into the safe haven. There was 
a wondrous pathos in her voice which moved him deeply. 

Her fingers lingered on the keys, and again hovered away in a 
shadowy voluntary, in which there rose out of sorrow trust and hope 
and consolation. She looked up into his face while she played, and 
saw the tender lustre of his glance, and the faithfulness — the stanch and 
beautiful faithfulness — which had endured through trials, rebufis, and 
humiliations. 

I love you, Constance, he murmured. 

And I love your constancy,’’ she answered, with a faint smile. 

He seized her hand and drew it gently through his arm, as she rose 
from the piano. 

Promise me,” he said, that you will no more sing that heart- 
rending song.” 

^^No,” she replied, with a look which made his heart leap; for 
there was not only gratitude and admiration in it, but a spark, too, of 
a diviner passion : henceforth I shall sing, — 

^ And sweet is love who puts an end to pain.^ 




THE END. 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN. 


643 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN 

T HEMISTOCLES being desired at a feast to touch a lute, said ^ he 
could not fiddle, but yet he could make a small town a great city/ 
If a true survey be taken of councillors and statesmen, there may be 
found (though rarely) those that can make a small state great and yet 
cannot fiddle ; as, on the other side, there will be found a great many 
that can fiddle very cunningly but yet . . . their gift lieth the other 
way, to bring a great and flourishing estate to ruin and decay. And 
certainly those degenerate arts and shifts whereby many councillors and 
governors gain both favor with their masters and estimation with the 
vulgar deserve no better name than fiddling, being things rather pleasing 
for the time, and graceful to themselves only, than tending to the weal 
and advancement of the state which they serve.^^ 

My lord Bacon has here used the term fiddling’^ — with a propriety 
wholly unsuspected by himself — to denote the whole corpus of musical 
art. He clearly believes that in discussing the value of musical as op- 
posed to political affairs he has expressed the pithiest possible contempt 
for the former by the mere nickname he has given them in translating 
the mot of Themistocles. 

It was just about the time when the wise fool Francis was writing 
his essay “ Of Kingdoms and Estates’^ that the world was beginning to 
think earnestly upon the real significance of tones ; for it was in this 
period that music — what we moderns call music — was born. The pro- 
digious changes which the advent of this art has wrought in some of 
our largest coijceptions could not have been foreseen even by the author 
of the ‘‘ Instauratio Magna.^^ 

As for Themistocles, one can even sympathize with his saying. 
Harmony is little more than three centuries old, and the crude and 
meagre melodies which constituted the whole repertory of the lute^^- 
players in Themistocles’s time could not have been likely to charm 
away an ambitious man from the larger matters of state-making. 

It is, in truth, only of late years that one can announce, without 
being liable to a commission of lunacy, an estimate of the comparative 
value of music and statecraft so different from that of Themistocles 
and Bacon as that it affirms the approach of a time when the musician 
will become quite as substantial a figure in every-day life as the poli- 
tician. There are those who think it wise to declare to the young men 
of our age that what Lord Bacon calls the weal and advancement of 
the state’^ may be as fairly forwarded by that citizen who shall be a good 
fiddler — always provided that our definition of a good fiddler be accepted 
— as by him that shall be versed in the making of laws and treaties. 

The amiable Tyndall relates tliat when he was once about to per- 
form a new experiment for Mr. Faraday in his laboratory, the latter 
stopped him, saying, First, tell me what I am to look for.’’ Follow- 
ing this wise precaution, let the reader look for, and carry mainly with 
him, in the following discussion, these principal ideas : 


644 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN. 


That music is the characteristic art-form of the modern time, as 
sculpture is of the antique and painting is of the mediaeval time. 

That this is necessarily so, in consequence of certain curious rela- 
tions between unconventional musical tones and the human spirit, — 
particularly the human spirit at its present stage of growth. 

That this growth indicates a time when the control of masses of 
men will be niore and more relegated to each unit thereof, when the 
law will be given from within the bosom of each individual, — not from 
without, — and will rely for its sanctions upon desire instead of repug- 
nance. 

That in intimate connection with this change in man^s spirit there 
proceeds a change in man’s relations to the Unknown* whereby (among 
other things) that relation becomes one of love rather than of terror. 

That music appears to offer conditions most favorable to both these 
changes, and that it will therefore be the reigning art until they are 
accomplished, or at least greatly forwarded. 

Perhaps the most effectual step a man can take in ridding himself 
of the clouds which darken most speculations upon these matters is to 
abandon immediately the idea that music is a species of language, — 
which is not true, — and to substitute for that the converse idea that 
language is a species of music. A language is a set of tones segre- 
gated from the great mass of musical sounds, and endowed, by agree- 
ment, with fixed meanings. The Anglo-Saxons have, for example, 
practically agreed that if the sound man is uttered, the intellects of all 
Anglo-Saxon hearers will act in a certain direction, and always in that 
direction for that sound. But in the case of music no such convention 
has been made. The only method of affixing a definite meaning to a 
musical composition is to associate with the component toiles of it either 
conventional words, intelligible gestures, or familiar events and places. 
When a succession of tones is played, the intellect of the hearer may 
move ; but the movements are always determined by influences wholly 
extraneous to the purely musical tones, — such as associations with words, 
with events, or with any matters which place definite intellectual forms 
(that is, ideas) before the mind. 

It is to this idiosyncrasy of music that it owes the honor of having 
been selected by the modern Age as a characteristic art- form. For 
music, freed from the stern exactions of the intellect, is also freed from 
the terrible responsibilities of realism. 

It will be instructive to array some details of the working of this 
principle. 

Let the general reader recall to himself three great classifications of 
human activity. The universe consists (say) of man, and of what is 
not man. These two being coexistent, it is in the nature of things that 
certain relations shall straightway spring up between them. Of such 
relations there are three possible kinds, regarding them from the stand- 
point of man. These kinds are the intellectual, the emotional, and the 
physical. Whenever a man knows a thing, the intellectual relation is 
set up. When he loves, or desires, a thing, the emotional relation is set 
up. When he touches, or sees, a thing, the physical relation is set up. 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN. 


645 


Now, whatever may be the class of relations with which music 
deals, it is not the first class above named, — the intellectual. This has 
sometimes been doubted. But the doubt is due mainly to a certain 
confusion of thought whicli has arisen from the circumstance that the 
most common and familiar musical instrument happens to be at the 
same time what may be called an intellectual instrument, — i.e., the 
organ of speech. With the great majority of the human race the 
musical tones which are most frequently heard are those of the human 
voice. But these tones — which are as wholly devoid of intellectual 
signification in themselves as if^they were enounced from a violin or 
flute — are usually produced along with certain vowel and consonantal 
combinations which go to make up words, and which consequently 
have conventional meanings. In this way significations belonging ex- 
clusively to the woi^ds of a song are often transferred by the hearer 
to the tones of the melody. In reality they are absolutely distinct. 
Nothing is easier than to demonstrate this. Let any vocalist, for ex- 
ample, execute the following passage : 


Allegro moderato ma energico. 


r-gdrs' ■ - 1 ' _LJ _ -r^ r — 

^ h \» \ gi M J - - P 




n r ! ^ ' u s ^ 1 ^ 

A12 ^ iL_ L. 




La la la la la la la la la la la la la. 


The question may be safely put to any auditor, when the vocalist 
has finished, what does this mean ? As long as the vague syllable la 
is used as the vehicle of the tones, no human being can truthfully say 
that the passage (it is the opening phrase of the Scherzo in a lovely 
Symphony of Gade’s) brings any report whatever to his intellect. If, 
instead of the meaningless particle Za, words should be employed, the 
case would not be changed as to the tones of the musical phrase. The 
hearers might associate the import of each word with the tone upon 
which it happened to fall, but the tone would not be thereby impressed 
with the meaning of that word. It might occur a moment after, con- 
joined with any number of different words. The mixture of meaning 
and tone is merely mechanical, not chemical. 

In other words, the intellectual relations are not affected by pure 
tones, — not by the tones of the human voice any more than the tones of 
a violin. Whenever intellectual relations are determined by tones, it 
is not in virtue of their character as tones, but because of certain con- 
ventional agreements whereby it has been arranged that upon the hear- 
ing of these tones, as upon the hearing of so many signals, the intellects 
of the auditors will all move in certain directions. It may strengthen 
the conception of this principle to recall here that other signals than 
tones might have been agreed upon for this purpose. Gestures, indeed, 
are used with quite as much effect as tone-language in many dramatic 
situations, and constitute the entire speech of many persons. The 
selection of tones, rather than of other sorts of signals, to convey ideas 
has not been made because the tones had intrinsic significations, but upon 
purely a posteriori and economic considerations, the main one being that 


646 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN. 


there is no means of producing so great a variety of signals with so little 
expenditure of muscular force comparable to that of the human voice. 

This principle cannot be justly embarrassed with any appearance of 
conflict between it and the doctrine of the origin of language in imita- 
tive sounds. There is no incompatibility whatever. The imitative 
sound will always owe its character of word-progenitor not to any in- 
trinsic meaning in the sound itself, but to a purely extrinsic association 
by which the intellect has learned to connect it with some phenomenon 
having a definite meaning. To a person acquainted with the phenom- 
enon of thunder, for example, the sound of the word thunder^^ might 
suggest the phenomenon ; but this suggestion is the result of circum- 
stances utterly apart from any intellectual influence communicable by 
the mere tones of the vocable itself. 

Once for all, — for it is a principle of such fundamental importance 
as to warrant its repetition in many forms, — musical tones have in 
themselves no meaning appreciable by the human intellect. 

Some steaming-hot quarrels among modern musicians clear away im- 
mediately before the steady application of this doctrine. For example, 
there are many conscientious and beautiful-souled artists who deny 
themselves all the glory and delight to be found in the so-called pro- 
gramme-music.’^ Their motives are unquestionably those of rigorous 
conscientiousness. Programme-music has been held up to them as a 
sort of unclean thing. It is indeed no wonder at all that the steady- 
going classicists should have been startled and alarmed by the tre- 
mendous explosion of Berlioz in their midst. At this distance of 
time, the quiet thinker who has not been brought up in the traditions 
of any school can easily see that in the state of music at that period 
a clap of good rousing thunder was exactly the best thing which could 
happen, and for this purpose Berlioz was sent. Unfortunately, the 
shock of this vivid genius has been transmitted from teacher to pupil 
in many instances, and there are still large numbers who are unable to 
examine the question of programme-music in any such tranquil spirit 
as to warrant the hope of a philosophic conclusion. When it is ex- 
amined in this spirit, it does not seem to present great difficulties. 

Programme-music,” at first a sarcastic term, has now come to be 
almost technical, as denoting a musical composition in which the other- 
wise vague effects of the tones have been sought to be specialized and 
intellectual i zed by the employment of conventional words. These 
words are conjoined with the tones in various ways. Sometimes, 
as in Liszt’s so-called tone-poem of Immortality, the w'ords occur in 
the form of an extract from a poem which is prefixed to the musical 
score. In this case the hearer is merely supposed to have read the 
words ; and the effect of the whole proceeding is little more than an 
invitation that the hearer will please send his intellect, during the play- 
ing of the piece, in the direction marked out by the poetic preface. 
But again the attempt may be more completely to unite the words and 
tones : as in the Lelio” of Berlioz or in the musical rendition of 
Paradise and the Peri” by Sterndale Bennett, where the w^ords are 
recited either along with, or between detached passages of, the instru- 
mental music. Now, why should not this be done ? It can be shown 


PROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN, 


647 


that programme-music is the very earliest, most familiar, and most 
spontaneous form of musical composition. For what is any song but 
programme-music developed to its furthest extent ? A song is, as has 
been shown on an earlier page, a double performance : a certain in- 
strument — the human voice — produces a number of tones none of 
which have any intellectual value in themselves ; but, simultaneously 
with the production of the tones, words are uttered, each in a physical 
association with a tone, so as to produce upon the hearer at once 
the effects of conventional and of unconventional sounds. The un- 
conventional sounds might be made alone by the human voice : in this 
event the song would simply be deprived of the intellectual elements 
imparted by the words. Suppose, now, that the singer shall play the 
air on a violin, and pronounce the words in conjunction with their ap- 
propriate tones as he goes along. What difference can be detected 
between playing the words and singing the words ? It is but a change 
of instruments : instead of the voice, which is a reed-instrument, he 
now employs the violin, a stringed instrument. AVhy is not the latter 
as legitimate as the former ? 

It is, as I have before intimated, only from a failure to perceive the 
fact that the tones of the human voice are in themselves as meaningless, 
intellectually, as the tones of all other reed-instruments, that any hesi- 
tation in answering this question could arise. Certainly if programme- 
music is absurd, all songs are nonsense. The principle of being of 
every song is that intellectual impressions can be advantageously com- 
bined with musical impressions, in addressing the spirit of man. It is 
precisely this principle that underlies programme-music. Yet one of 
the most genuine music-lovers I have ever met always comes away from 
Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony with a melancholy sense of sin. He 
thinks he ought not to have enjoyed it so much ; he feels that he has 
done wrong in deriving pleasure from an inartistic attempt even of the 
great king of tones. ^^It is programme-music,” he says. This same 
person will listen with the most intense delight to Beethoven’s cycle of 
songs, ‘^To My Love Far Away,” for example; and yet the latter is 
programme-music carried to such a development that every single tone 
is supposed to bear with it a special message to the intellect by virtue 
of its amalgamation with the conventional signal of a word. In the 
Pastoral Symphony the suggestions of ideas are only made in the most 
evanescent way. There is not the least attempt at puerile imitations. 
The Nightingale is merely suggested, for example, since no mortal ear 
could ever regard as an imitation the orchestral voice which gives this 
particular hint. Beethoven wishes to suggest a definite intellectual 
image to his hearer along with a certain set of tones : instead of employ- 
ing a conventional word to aceomplish his purpose, he chooses to employ 
an imitative tone. Nothing could be more natural, nothing more 
legitimate. Why not hint a storm with stormy tones, as well as de- 
scribe a storm in stormy words ? Why write one way for the reed in 
the clarinet, another way for the reed in the throat ? 

In other words, if the composer choose to invite our intellect to get 
up and ride, along with our emotion, why should not we accept? There 
is but one question, — Can he carry double ? 


648 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN. 


Beethoven could. So, indeed, could Berlioz. What good reason 
wliy we should not mount and off? 

No man can say. In truth, one would wonder at the blindness of 
artists who persistently keep themselves in leading-strings for the pur- 
pose of avoiding purely fanciful dangers, if one did not remember how 
music is yet so young an art that we have not learned to make it, far 
less to understand it. 

What has now been said upon the matter of programme-music is 
not at all by way of digression. It has illustrated in the best possible 
manner the main thought so far insisted on, — to wit, how absolutely 
non-intellectual is the effect of pure tone, insomuch that if the composer 
wish to carry anything like a cognition along with music he must do so 
either by employing words or associations such as those suggested by 
imitative sounds which the mind has learned to connect with given 
phenomena. 

A point is now reached from which an important step may be taken 
in the argument. This peculiarity of music completely separates it from 
all Other arts, and places it on a plane alone. One of the results of 
this unique position has been already referred to. On an earlier page I 
spoke of the non-liability of music to the onerous exactions of realism. 
A somewhat more detailed statement of this idea will carry us far on 
our way towards an understanding of the satisfaction which music 
brings to our modern needs in this connection.* 

Let us compare it with painting from the point of view of realistic 
necessities. 

A painting is an imitation, upon a flat surface, of things which are 
not flat ; it is an imitation, upon a surface lying wholly in one plane, 
of things whose planes lie at all manner of angles with each other ; it 
is an imitation of three dimensions by two, and of horizontal distance 
upon vertical distance. These imitations — of course imitations^^ is 
not a precise word here — can be accomplished because human vision is 
not unerringly keen. 

It is through the limitations of the eye that painting is possible. 
Perhaps this could not have been properly understood before Bishop 
Berkeley unfolded the true nature of vision and the dependence of the 
reports brought in by the sense of sight upon many other matters 
which are the result of judgments founded on experience. It may fairly 

* It is made necessary by some former experiences to add, here, that no one 
must imagine the ensuing comparative remarks as between music and painting 
(or sculpture) to be made in any spirit of silly glorification of the former, or of 
equally silly depreciation of the latter. There is no question of merit or demerit. 
The argument is merely that music is the modern art because it suits the modern 
need, and the attempt is to show how. At another age painting might suit the 
need better, in which event painting would be the art of the time ; but the en- 
suing remarks would still hold good. 

If any further profession be necessary, one joyfully embraces an occasion to 
declare that the rise of landscape-painting seems surely one of the most notable 
events in the history of art; that the Americans are, or are at least to be, the 
greatest in this branch, and that some of them appear to me now among the very 
sweetest preachers of beauty in all time. The Frenchmen certainly show more 
technic thus far, but never such seizure of Nature, such grasp of her unspeak- 
able loveliness and nearness to man. 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN. 


649 


be said to have been established by that acute speculator that we do not 
see either distance or magnitude, — that is, that these two particulars are 
not immediate deliverances of the sense of sight, but are the results of 
a comparison which the mind draws between present and certain re- 
membered appearances gathered by touch, hearing, and other senses. 
This comparison is made rapidly, and tlie judgments founded on it 
are practically instantaneous ; but the fact remains that distance and 
magnitude are mainly not given by the eye, but deduced by reason as 
inferences from several particulars which have been communicated by 
other senses in addition to sight. 

It is, then, this defective organ which is practised upon (of course 
not in the bad sense) by the art of painting. Every one, therefore, 
upon approaching a painting, goes through a preliminary series of 
allowances and of (in a certain sense) forgivenesses. These allowances 
are made so habitually that they frequently become unnoticed, and 
many will be surprised at remembering that they are made at all. But 
something like this typic discussion always occurs in practice when one 
is before a painting for the first time. Here,^^ says the eye, is an 
imitation of a mountain.^’ 

Absurd,’^ replies the judgment, which has often before tested the 
reports of the eye by reports of the touch, the ear, and other senses, 
and has learned to correct them accordingly ; the mountain is a mile 
high, while the canvas is not three feet. But let it pass.^^ 

Here,’^ continues the eye, is a representation of trees with round 
trunks, standing at various distances from each other, along a wide 
landscape.’] 

Impossible, save by some trick of suggestion,” replies the judg- 
ment ; for the canvas is flat ; and if you look closely you will see that 
the trees are merely placed higher or lower than each other, the vertical 
being artfully made to do duty for the horizontal ; and the horizontal 
itself is a mere make-believe; do you not see it is just as near you in 
reality as the foreground ? But let it pass.” 

Nor is this all. The eye, though defective in the particulars men- 
tioned, is equally effective in others, and in its turn it becomes the 
critic of the painting. For example: is this really like a mountain? 
queries the eye, and straightway falls to examining the imitation and 
comparing it with realities. Is this genuine oak-foliage? Would 
these shadows fall in this manner, and is their value truly estimated 
and depicted? A thousand such preliminary questions the eye asks. 
If they are not satisfactorily answered by the painting, it fails at the 
very start, and there is no use in going further to examine what £esthetic 
appeal it may make. Through such a vestibule, resisting the chill of 
these cold intellectual considerations of vrahemblance, and sobered by 
all these allowances and forgivenesses, must every soul pass on to the 
ultimate purpose and meaning of a picture. 

Now, it is easy to conceive a stage of growth of the human spirit 
when the necessity of making these realistic comparisons would be no 
hinderance at al],Fut a refreshment and an advantage. In the mediaeval 
time, for example, when the subtle disquisitions of the schoolmen aban- 
doned the real entirely and busied themselves with pure figments of 


650 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN. 


human fancy, — when bigotry was piled upon bigotry and fanaticism 
upon fanaticism until all trace of the actual earth and of actual human 
nature was obscured, — in such a time, meifs minds would experience a 
sense of relief and of security in contemplating works of art composed 
of firm and definite forms whose accuracy could be brought to satis- 
fiictory tests of actual measurement. Accordingly, we find the artist 
of the mediaeval time to be a painter, seeking refuge from the instabili- 
ties and vaguenesses of the prevalent thought of the time in the sharply- 
outlined figures which he could fix upon his canvas. 

These considerations apply with still greater force to the antique 
time, with its peculiar art of sculpture. In an age when men knew 
so little of the actual physical w^orld that the main materials and sub- 
jects of thought were mere fancies and juggles of ingenious speculators, 
it must have been a real rest for the mind to fix itself upon the solid 
and enduring images of undeceptive stone which the artists furnished 
forth from their wonderful brains and chisels. The need of such rest, 
though not, of course, consciously recognized by the sculptors, was 
really the reason of their being. In such matters Nature takes care 
of her own. She knows the peculiar hunger of an age, and fashions 
the appropriate satisfactions to it. 

Here, now, we are arrived at the crisis of the argument. What 
has been said of the relations of sculpture and painting to the times in 
which they flourished is but the special application of a general under- 
lying principle which may be thus stated : The Art of any age will be 
complementary to the Thought of that age. 

In the light of this principle, let us examine the attitude of music 
towai’ds the present time. A priori, one will expect to find that in an 
age of physical science, when the intellect of man imperiously demands 
the exact truth of all actual things and is possessed with a holy mania 
for reality, the characteristic Art will be one affording an outlet from 
the rigorous fixedness of the actual and of the knowui into the freer 
regions of the possible and of the unknown. This reasoning becomes 
verified as soon as we collate the facts. With sufficient accuracy in 
view of the size of the terms, it may be said that the rise of modern 
music has been simultaneous with that of modern physical science. 
And what more natural? I have endeavored to show that music is 
of all arts that which has least to do with realism, that wdiich departs 
most widely from the rigid definitions and firm outlines wliich the in- 
tellect (I use this term always in its strict sense as referring to the 
cognitive or thinking activity of man, in contradistinction to the emo- 
tional or conative activity) demands. In music there is no preliminary 
allow^ance to be made by the ear, as w^as alleged to be made by the eye 
in painting ; there is no forgiveness, in consideratioii of the impossible ; 
there is no question of vraisemhlance, no chill of discussion, at the 
outset. Even in the case of programme-music, where a suggestion is 
made to the intellect by imitation of familiar sounds, the imitation is, 
as already showm, really no imitation, does not pretend to be or set up 
for a vraiserablant representation, but is a mere hint, with purposes 
wholly ulterior to and beyond the small puerility wdiich imitation 
would be if sought as an end in itself. Moreover, in all cases of pro- 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN, 


651 


gramme-music, even if the attempt at carrying along the intellect fails, 
the music as an emotional satisfaction remains. If bad, as a programme, 
it is still good, as music. 

Music, then, being free from the weight and burden of realism, — 
its whole modus being different from that of imitative and plastic art, 
— its peculiar activity being in the same direction with that of those 
emotions by which man relates himself (as I hope to show further on) 
to the infinite, — what more natural than that the spirit of man should 
call upon it for relief from the pressure and grind of Fact, should cry 
to it, with earnest pathos, Come, lead me away out of this labyrinth 
of the real, the definite, the known, into, or at least towards, the region 
of the ideal, the infinite, the unknown : knowledge is good, I will 
continue to thirst and to toil for it, but, alas ! I am blind even with 
the blaze of the sun ; take me where there is starlight and darkness, 
where my eyes shall rest from the duties of verification and my soul 
shall repose from the labor of knowing.’^ 

But this is only a rudimentary statement of the agency of music in 
modern civilization, intended to bring prominently forward its attitude 
towards science. The musician is the complement of the scientist. 
The latter will superintend our knowing; the former will superintend 
our loving. 

I use this last term advisedly, intending by it to advance a step in 
the investigation of the nature of music. For the mission of music is 
not merely to be a quietus and lullaby to the soul of a time that is 
restless with science. This it does, but does as an incident of far 
higher w^ork. 

On an earlier page, the reader’s attention was recalled to three 
classes of activities by which a man relates himself to that part of the 
universe which is not himself, — namely, the cognitive (or intellect- 
ual,” as I have used the term here, not to be too technical for the gen- 
eral reader), the emotional, and the physical. Now, man strives always 
io place himself in relation not only with those definite forms which 
go to make up the finite world about him, but also with that indefinite 
Something up to which every process of reasoning, every outgo of 
emotion, every physical activity, inevitably leads him, — God, the In- 
finite, the Unknown. The desire of man is that he may relate himself 
with the Infinite both in the cognitive and in tlie emotional way. Sir 
William Hamilton showed clearly how impossible was any full relation 
of the former sort, in showing that cognition itself was a conditioning 
a defining, a placing of boundaries appreciable by the intellect), and 
that therefore the knowu'ng of the Infinite was the conditioning of the 
Unconditioned, — in short, impossible. This seemed to preclude the 
possibility of any relation from man to God, of the cognitive sort; but 
Mr. Herbert Spencer has relieved the blankness of this situation by 
asserting the possibility of a partial relation still. We cannot think 
God, it is true ; but we can think towards Him. This in point of fact 
is wdiat men continually do. The definition in the catechism, ‘‘ God 
is a spirit, infinite, eternal, and unchangeable in His being, wisdom,” 
etc., is an effort of man to relate himself to God in the cognitive, or 
intellectual, way : it is a thinking towards God. 


652 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN, 


Now, there is a constant endeavor of man, but one to which less 
attention has been paid by philosophers, to relate himself with the 
Infinite not only in the cognitive way just described, but also in the 
emotional way. Just as persistently as our thought seeks the Infinite, 
does our emotion seek the Infinite. We not only wish to think it, 
we wish to love it; and as our love is not subject to the disabilities 
of our thought, the latter of these two wishes would seem to be 
capable of a more complete fulfilment than the former. It has been 
shown that we can only think towards the Infinite ; it may be that 
our love can reach nearer its Object. 

As a philosophic truth, music does carry our emotion towards the 
Infinite. No man will doubt this who reflects for a moment on the 
rise of music in the Church. The progress of this remarkable phe- 
nomenon will have probably come, in some way, under the notice 
of the youngest person who will read this paper. 

I remember when the most flourishing church of our town regarded 
with intense horror a proposition to buy an organ, considering it an in- 
sidious project of the devil to undermine religion. The same church 
has now the largest organ in the city, with a paid organist and choir. 
Scarcely any person who has lived in the smaller towns of the United 
States but will recall similar instances. At present the organ, the song, 
are in all the growing churches. What would be Mr. Moody without 
Mr. Sankey, or Mr. Whittle without Mr. Bliss? 

And not only does music win its way into the Church, but it grad- 
ually takes on more and more importance in the service of worship. 
How many are there in these days to whom the finest preaching comes 
from the organ-loft ! Greater and greater every year grow the multi- 
tudes of those who declare that no sermons, no words, no forms of any 
sort, avail to carry them on the way towards the desired sacred goal as 
do the tones of Palestrina, of Bach, of Beethoven, when these are given 
forth by any organist of even moderate accomplishment. Everywhere 
one finds increasing the number of ferv^ent souls who fare easily by this 
road to the Lord. From the negro swaying to and fro with the weird 
rhythms of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,’^ from the Georgia Cracker 
yelling the Old Ship of Zioif^ to the heavens through the logs of the 
piney-woods church, to the intense devotee rapt away into the Infinite 
upon a mass of Palestrina, there comes but one testimony to the sub- 
stantial efficacy of music in this matter of helping the emotion of man 
across the immensity of the known into the boundaries of the Unknown. 
Nay, there are those who go further than this : there are those who de- 
clare that music is to be the Church of the future, wherein all creeds 
will unite like the tones in a chord. 

Now, it cannot be that music has taken this place in the deepest and 
holiest matters of man’s life through mere fortuitous arrangement. It 
must be that there exists some sort of relation between pure tones and 
the spirit of man by virtue of which the latter is stimulated and forced 
onward towards the great End of all love and aspiration. What may 
be the nature of this relation,— why it is that certain vibrations sent 
forward by the tympanum along the bones and fluids of the inner ear 
should at length arrive at the spirit of man endowed with such a pro- 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN 


653 


digioiis and heavenly energy, — at what point of the course they acquire 
this capacity of angels, being, up to that point, mere particles trembling 
hither and thither, — these are, in the present state of our knowledge, 
mysteries which no man can unravel. 

It is through this relation of music to man that it becomes, as I 
said in the principles affirmed at the outset, a moral agent. Let us not 
pester ourselves with remembering how such and such a musician was 
a profligate, a beast, a trifler, and so on. This is only submitting our- 
selves to what our \Yise Emerson calls the tyranny of particulars. The 
clear judgment in the matter is to be formed by looking at the consum- 
mate masters of the art. 

Palestrina, Bach, Beethoven, — what had these gentlemen to do with 
sheriffs and police, with penalties and legal sanctions ? They were law- 
abiding citizens; but their adherence to the law was the outcome of an 
inner desire after the beauty of Order, not from fear of the law’s puni- 
tive power. 

In short, they were artists, and they loved goodness because good- 
ness is beautiful. Badness was not a temptation, because.it is ugly, 
and the true artist recoils energetically from ugliness. 

I know very well how many names there are in art which are 
associated with profligacy. But I think it clearly demonstrable that 
in all these artists there was a failure in the artistic sense precisely to 
the extent of the failure in apprehending those enormous laws of nature 
whose [)ractical execution by the individual we call morality. You can 
always see where the half-way good man was but the half-way artist. 

One hears all about the world nowadays that art is wholly un-moral, 
that art is for art’s sake, that art has nothing to do with good or bad 
in behavior. These are the cries of clever men whose cleverness can 
imitate genius so aptly as to persuade many that they have genius, and 
whose smartness can preach so incisively about art that many believe 
them to be artists. But such catch-words will never deceive the 
genius, the true artist. The true artist will never remain a bad man ; 
he will always wonder at a wicked artist. The simplicity of this 
wonder renders it wholly impregnable. The argument of it is merely 
this : the artist loves beauty supremely : because the good is beautiful, 
he will clamber continuously towards it, through all possible sloughs, 
over all possible obstacles, in spite of all possible falls. 

This is the artist’s creed. Now, just as music increases in hearty 
acceptance among men, so will this true artistic sense of the loveliness 
of morality spread, so will the attractiveness of all that is pure and 
lovely grow in power, and so will the race progress towards that time 
described in the beginning of this essay as one in which the law would 
cease to rely upon terror for its sanction, but depend wholly upon love 
and desire. 

If any ask whether there are signs of such a beneficial spreading 
of music among the general classes of men, one has but to reply. Look 
around. In the first place, there is the wonderful growth of music in 
the churches, which has already been spoken of. But that is only half 
the phenomenon. Turn from the churches into the homes of the 
United States. It is often asserted that ours is a materialistic age, and 
Yol. XLI.— 42 


654 


FROM BACON TO BEETHOVEN 


that romance is dead. But this is marvellously untrue, and it may be 
counter-asserted with perfect confidence that there was never an age of 
the world when art was enthroned by so many hearthstones and inti- 
mate in so many common houses as now. For the pianos are almost 
everywhere. Where there are not pianos, there are cabinet-organs; 
and where not these, the guitars ; not to speak of the stray violins, 
the flutes, the horns, the clarinets, which lie about in houses here and 
there and are brought out on the nights when the sister is home from 
boarding-school or when the village orchestra meets. These pianos 
have done a great work for music. No one who knows the orchestra 
well can admit the piano for itself as a final good, because it is an 
instrument of fixed tones and therefore imperfect ; but when one thinks 
of the incalculable service which the piano has rendered in diffusing 
conceptions of harmony (which is the distinguishing characteristic of 
modern music) among the masses, one must regard it with reverent 
affection. 

Never was any art so completely a household art as is the music of 
to-day ; and the piano has made this possible. 

As the American is, with all his shortcomings of other sorts, at 
any rate most completely the man of to-day, so it is directly in the line 
of this argument to say that one finds more ^Halent for music’^ among 
the Americans, especially among American women, than among any 
other people. The musical sense is very widely diffused among us, 
and the capacity for musical execution is strikingly frequent. 

When Americans shall have learned the supreme value and glory 
of the orchestra, — when we shall have advanced beyond the piano, 
which is, as matters now exist, a quite necessary stage in musical 
growth, — when our musical young women shall have found that, if 
their hands are too small for the piano, or if they have no voices, they 
can study the flute, the violin, the oboe, the bassoon, the viola, the 
violoncello, the horn, the conio Inglese, — in short, every orchestral 
instrument, — and that they are quite as capable as men — in some cases 
much better fitted by nature than any man — to play all these, then I 
look to see America the home of the orchestra, and to hear everywhere 
the profound messages of Beethoven and Bach to men. 

Meantime, what shall we say of an art which thus is becoming so 
much the daily companion of man as to sit by every fireside and in 
every church, — nay, which, I might have added, thrusts itself into the 
crowded streets in a thousand shapes, wherever the newsboy whistles, 
the running clerk hums the bass he is to sing in the chorus, the hand- 
organ drones, the street-band blares, which presides at weddings, at 
feasts, at great funerals, which marches at the head of battle, and opens 
the triumphant ceremonials of peace ? 

As for Beethoven, it is only of late that his happy students have 
begun to conceive the true height and magnitude of his nature. The 
educational value of his works upon the understanding soul which has 
yielded itself to the rapture of their teaching is unspeakable, and is of 
a sort which almost compels a man to shed tears of gratitude at every 
mention of this master’s name. For in these works are many qualities 
which one could not expect to find cohering in any one human spirit. 


DING DONG. 


655 


Taking Beethoven’s sonatas (which, by the way, no one will ever prop- 
erly appreciate until lie regards them really as symphonies and mentally 
distributes the parts among flutes, reeds, horns, and strings as he goes 
through them), his songs, his symphonies, together, I know not where 
one will go to find in any human products such largeness, such sim- 
plicity, such robust manliness, such womanly tenderness, such variety 
of invention, such parsimony of means with such splendor of effects, 
such royal grandeur without pretence, such pomp with such modesty, 
such unfailing moderation and exquisite right feeling in art, such 
prodigious transformations and re-transformations of the same melody, 
— as if the blue sky should alternately shrink into a blue violet and 
then expand into a sky again, — such love-making to the infinite and 
the finite, such range of susceptibility, such many-sidedness in offering 
some gift to every nature and every need, such comprehension of the 
whole of human life. 

There is but one name to which one can refer in speaking of Bee- 
thoven : it is Shakespeare. 

For as Shakespeare is, so far, our king of conventional tones, so is 
Beethoven our king of unconventional tones. And as music takes up 
the thread which language drops, so it is where Shakespeare ends that 
Beethoven begins. -*• 


DING DONG. 


W HEN the world grows old by the chimney-side, 
Then forth to the youngling rocks I glide, 
Where over the water and over the land 
The bells are booming on either hand. 


Andante. 

Now up they go ding, then down again dong, 

And awhile they swing to the same old song ; 

For the metal goes round to a single bound, 
A-cutting the fields with its measured sound. 

While the tired tongues fall with a lengthened boom 
As solemn and loud as the crack of doom. 

Allegro. 

Then changed is their measure to tone upon tone, 
And seldom it is that one sound comes alone, 

For they ring out their peals in a mingled throng. 
And the breeze wafts the loud ding dong along. 

When the echo hath reached me in this lone vale, 

I am straightway a hero in coat of mail. 

I tug at my belt and I march on my post. 

And feel myself more than a match for a host. 


656 


MR, SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE. 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN’S INHERITANCE. 


I. 


SCHLEmEL. 


HE English language very likely possesses an equivalent for the 



L Jiidisch word Schlemiel; but I have tried in vain to find it. 
Briefly, a Schlemiel is a person who never prospers, with wliora every- 
thing goes wrong. Born under an evil star, or with a leaden spoon in 
his mouth, he is constitutionally unsuccessful. Misfortune has marked 
him for her own ; ill luck accompanies him through life. The witty 
Jewish author Leopold Kompert s.ays that while other people seize 
opportunities by the head, the Schlemiel lays hold of them by the foot, 
and allows them to wriggle and kick themselves loose. Put gold into 
the hands of your Schlemiel, adds Kompert, it turns to copper. Let 
him purchase a cask of wine ; when he opens the spigot, vinegar gushes 
forth. Yet, of all mortal men, the Schlemiel is usually the best-natured, 
the lightest-hearted. A perpetual sunny smile illuminates his face. He 
seems to regard his sorry destiny as an excellent practical joke, at which., 
though it be at his own expense, he can laugh as w^ell as another. Ca- 
lamity is his native element. He is impervious to it. He minds it no 
more than a salamander minds fire, or a duck water. The Lord shapes 
the back to the burden. That same careless and irresponsible tempera- 
ment which is constantly bringing the Schlemiel to grief, enables ^him 
to accept it with a shrug. Not but that, once in a while, you may meet 
a melancholy, even a crabbed and misanthropic, Schlemiel ; but he will 
also be a highly exceptional Schlemiel. 

By his own admission, as well as by the judgment of his friends, 
Emmanuel Sonnenschein was a Schlemiel. I ain’t no goot,” he used 
to say, with an hilarious twinkle in his eye. I ain’t got no sense. 
I’m a raikular Schlemiel.” He was a very old man, white, and bent, 
and wrinkled; but, though he rather prided himself upon his age, and 
loved to prate about it, the exact figure of it he would never tell. He 
had been in this countiy a great many years ; and that again was a sub- 
ject of pride with him ; but again, for some unimaginable reason, he 
chose to make a secret of the date of his immigration. 

Old !” he would exclaim, lifting his hands toward the ceiling, 
and swinging his head from side to side in that peculiarly Jewish 
manner. ‘‘Old! Gott in Himmel ! . . . Vail, Saimmy,” — he always 
called me Saimmy, never would Mister me, having made my acquaint- 
ance when I was in swaddling-clothes, — vail, Saimmy, I don’t sup- 
pose you aifer knew nobody so old as me. Vail, if I told you my aich, 
you’d be aistonished ; you vould, honor bright. You’d be frightened, 
Saimmy ; it’s fearful, it simply is. Or else, I guess maybe you vouldn’t 
belief me; you’d tink I vas trying to fool you. Vail, ainyhow, I 
voii’t say anudder vord about it ; but I tell you fat you can do. You 
can bet a hat dot I’m vun of de very oldest shentlemen de Lord aifer 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 


657 


mait ; you can bet a hat on dot. . . . Oh, yais, I been in dis country 
an awful long time already, — longer as you yourself, dough you vas 
born here. I come ofer fen I vas kervite a young feller, not more as 
terventy-fife or tirty ; and IVe krown oop mit cle country. Yais, I 
vent into de paittling business right avay aifter I lainded, and Fve 
paittled on and oaff aifer since. My kracious, IVe paittled pretty much 
aiterydings a party could ; hair-oil, and coatton lace, and maitches, and 
insect-powter, and letter-paper, and pins and neetles, and chewelry, and 
toilet-soap, and suspainters, and toot-ache droaps, and marking-ink, and 
ague cure, and Yainkee notions ; but I ain^t naifer mait no money ; I 
ain’t naifer haid no luck; I vas a raikular Schlemiel. . . . Vail, I vas 
a pretty old shentleman already fen I got mairried ; dot vas in eighteen- 
hoonert-sixty. Den in sixty-vun my dowter Nettie vas born, and my 
vife she died. Vail, I guess maybe if my vife haid lived, I guess 
maybe I got rich. She vas vun of de very smartest ladies in de 
United States. She haid sense enough for a whole faimily. But I 
didn’t naifer haif no kind of luck ; and fen Nettie vas born, my vife 
she died. I vas a raikular Schlemiel, dere’s no two vays about it. Vail, 
it vas shust exaictly tree veeks aifterwarts, fen Nettie vas shust exaictly 
tree veeks old, vun day I vas cairrying her oop and down de room, to 
stoap her crying, — fen I let her droap on de floor, and her spine got 
inchured, and she’s been a cripple aifer since. I couldn’t help it, 
Saimmy ; I couldn’t, honor bright. I felt awful about it. 3Iein Gott, 
I cut my troat sooner as done it ! But I couldn’t help it, no more as 
I could help de color of my hair. I vas a Schlemiel. . . . Vail, 
Saimmy, you vas born in dot same year, — eighteen-sixty-vun, — vasn’t 
you? Yais, you and Nettie vas shust about de same aich. But, lieber 
fat a difference ! You — rich, hainsome, healty ! Nettie — poor, 
crippled, bait-ritten all her life ! And it vasn’t your fault dot you got 
dem advaintaches, no more as it vas her fault dot she ain’t got ’em. 
Vail, dis is a funny vorld; but de Lord is goot; and I suppose he’s 
got some reason for it. . . . My kracious, Saimmy, don’t I remaimber 
de day you vas born, and how glaid your popper feel dot you vasn’t a 
kirl ! He vas simply delighted, Saimmy, he simply vas. Fen 1 look 
at you now, — so tall and hainsome, and mit dot graind mustache and 
aiferydings, — vail, honor bright, I couldn’t hartly belief it. Vail, dis 
is a vunderful vorld ; it is, and no mistake. Vail, Saimmy, how’s 
your mommer?” 

II. 

SCHLEMIEL^S EXPECTATIONS. 

He lived with his crippled daughter Nettie up several flights of 
dark and rickety stairs, in a tenement-house overlooking Tompkins 
Square. Nettie passed her life between her bed and her easy-chair. 
Mr. Sonnenschein did the house-work, — cooked the meals and washed 
the dishes, made the beds and kept the quarters clean. Nettie’s fingers 
were the only members of her disabled body that remained fit for ser- 
vice. These she busied from morning till night each day, crocheting 
tidies and pillow-shams and such like articles, — marvellous in their 
expert workmanship and in their unexampled ugliness, — which her 


658 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE. 


father would “ paittle’^ from door to door through the town, thus eking 
out a meagre livelihood. At our house he turned up as often as three 
or four times a year, bringing specimens of Nettie^s handicraft in 
abundance sufficient to last a generation. We always bought them at 
his own appraisement ; but what my mother did with them I cannot 
say. This much is certain, she never allowed them to appear about 
the house. Perhaps she presented them en bloc to the next peddler 
who came along ; perhaps she had them used as kindlings for the fires. 
Poor Nettie ! that she should have wasted so much skill and so much 
labor upon such useless and unbeautiful creations ! 

Mr. Sonnenschein commonly arrived just as we had finished dinner, 
while we were getting into sympathy with our newly-lighted cigars. 
We would install him at the table, — for in respect of that virtue which 
ranks second only to godliness he was unimpeachable, — fill his plate 
and his wineglass, and wait expectantly for the good cheer to loosen 
his tongue. By and by, face fairly radiant of benevolence, he would 
lean back in his chair, heave a mighty sigh of satisfaction, wipe the 
tears of enjoyment from his eyes (with his napkin), and the unruly 
member would begin to wag. I always enjoyed listening to him, he 
was so simple-minded and so optimistic. 

^^Vail, now, dis is a funny vorld, Saimmy ; it is, and no mistake. 
Yais, it’s an awful funny vorld, dere ain’t no use in talking. Vail, 
now look at here. I vas a Schlemiel, — hey ? Dere ain’t no kervestion 
about dot, — I vas a Schlemiel. Vail, now look at here. Maybe you 
vouldn’t belief me, — you might tink I vas trying to fool you, — but, 
honor bright, I got a brudder ofer in Chairmany who’s vun of de very 
luckiest shentlemen dot vas aifer born. Now, ain’t dot funny ? . . . 
His name is Shakie, and me and him vas tervins. Vail, I suppose 
dere vasn’t goot luck enough to go around beterveen us; so Shakie he 
got it all, and I didn’t get ainy. All de same, I leaf it to you if it ain’t 
awful funny. . . . Vail, Shakie, he vas so fearful lucky, he vent into 
de chewelry business, and he got rich. Vail, I don’t know shust 
exaictly how rich he vas ; I ain’t naifer aisked him. But I don’t 
belief he’s vort less as fifty or a hoonert tousand tollars. Vail, of 
course, he might not be vort more as terventy-fife or tirty tousand. But 
he’s an awful rich shentleman anyhow; you can bet a hat on dot. 
Vail, Shakie he ain’t naifer got mairried, nor haid no children ; so fen 
he dies I get his money. Vail, he cain’t expect to live very much 
longer, for he’s a fearful old man by dis time already, and it ain’t 
necheral dot he should live to get much older. Him and me vas 
tervins ; so he’s shust exaictly as old as me ; and you ain’t got no idea 
how old dot is. Vail, I’ll feel awful sorry fen Shakie dies; yais. I’ll 
feel simply terrible ; but he cain’t expect to live much longer, — he’s so 
fearful old, — and I’ll be glaid to get dot money on account of Nettie. 
I don't care two cents about money on my own account; I don’t, 
honor bright. But poor little Nettie, she’s haid such a hart time of it 
all her life. I’ll be glaid fen I get money enough to let her live in 
comfort. . . . Vail, Saimmy, my brudder Shakie he’s an awful gooU 
hearted shentleman, and he’s got a lot of faimily feeling about him ; 
and I suppose if I wrote him a letter to-morrer, and aisked him to 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE. 


659 


make me a present of a tousand tollars, — vail, I suppose Shakie he’d 
saiiid it to me by returnermail ; he’s an old bechelor, you know, and 
he’s got so much faimily feeling. But I ain’t naifer aisked him for 
vun single cent. No, sir ; I go to de poor-house sooner *as aisk my 
brudder Shakie for a haif a tollar. Dot’s becoase I’m so prout. You 
ain’t got no idea how prout I am. Dere ain’t no use in talking, I 
shouldn’t vunder if I vas about de proutest shentleman de Lord aifer 
mait. And dot’s the reason I vouldn’t aisk no favors of my brudder 
Shakie. I vouldn’t let him know dot I ain’t so rich as himself, not for 
ten hoonert tousand tollars, — I’m so fearful prout. Fy^ Saimmy, my 
brudder Shakie he don’t dream dot I vas a &hlemiel. Vail, I guess 
maybe if he knew dot, — he’s got so much faimily feeling about him, — 
I guess maybe if Shakie knew dot, it vould break his heart.” 

Well, Mr. Sonnenschein,” my mother would presently inquire, 
what has Nettie been doing lately ? I hope you have brought some 
of her things with you to show us,” — thus proving herself to be a 
consummate hypocrite, though from the kindest motives. 

His hands would fly up toward the ceiling ; his head would begin 
to sway from side to side ; and, Ach, Nettie !” he would cry in re- 
sponse. Nettie ! She’s a born vunder ! Industrious ain’t no vord 
for it. She’s de graindest vorker in de United States, she simply is. 
York, vork, vork, from de time she vakes oop in de morning till she 
goes to sleep again at night ! I naifer seen nodings like it in all my 
life before. It’s fearful. And such a tailent ! I don’t know fere she 
gets it. Vail, I guess maybe she gets it from her mommer. Yais, my 
vife vas vun of de very smartest ladies de Lord aifer mait ; and I guess 
maybe dot’s how my dowter Nettie gets her tailent. Vail, she’s been 
vorking a new paittern lately, fich she mait oop out of her own hait. 
It’s de most maiknificent ting she aifer done ; it’s elegant ; it’s immense. 
I got it in tidies and piller-shaims and table-maits and bait-kervilts. 
You’ll fall daid in loaf mit it ; I bet a hat on dot. Hold on.” 

Therewith he would open his pack, and display his treasures, going 
into raptures of enthusiasm over them. Ain’t dey splendid ? Ain’t 
dey serveet ? Ain’t my dowter got a chenu-wine tailent ?” etc., etc. 
He was generosity incarnate, was Mr. Sonnenschein; and after we 
had satisfied our consciences by the purchase of tidies enough to fit 
out a colony, he would throw in two or three extra ones, as he ex- 
plained, for loaf.” Our protestations to the effect that he mustn’t 
rob himself he would quickly silence, crying, Don’t mention it. 
Don’t say anudder vord about it. Dere ain’t nodings stinchy about me. 
Goot maisure, small proafits, kervick sales, — dot’s my motter. Take 
’em and vailcome. You say anudder vord about it, I trow in some 
more.” That threat was effectual. We took them. 

III. 

SCHLEMIEIi^S PRUDENCE. 

Yes, his habit was to drop in upon us not seldomer than three or 
four times a year; but a period of quite six months had elapsed, and he 
had given us no sign of life, and we were beginning to wonder what 


660 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE. 


had become of him, — when, one blustering evening in November, at 
his usual hour, he entered our dining-room. 

From the instant we laid eyes upon him we knew that something 
extraordinary was in the wind. His accoutrement proclaimed as much, 
and so did the profound dejection that was painted upon his face. In- 
stead of the motley assortment of other people’s superannuated gar- 
ments in which we were wont to see him clad, he wore a brand-new 
suit of broadcloth. A black cravat encircled his gnarled and ancient 
throat. In his hand he carried a glossy stove-pipe hat, with a crape 
band about it; and under his arm, an oblong thickish parcel, neatly 
done up in paper, and tied with pink twine ; while the badge and in- 
strument of his profession, his accustomed pack, was nowhere to be 
seen. His countenance, as I have said, bespoke a deep and consuming 
melancholy. 

‘‘ Why, Mr. Sonnenschein !” exclaimed my mother, starting up in 
alarm and advancing to meet him. What has happened ? What’s 
the matter? Is — has — is Nettie ” 

‘‘No,” he interrupted, with a solemn gesture and in a sepulchral 
voice. “ No, it ain’t Nettie. No, tank de Lord, it ain’t so baid as 
dot. But it’s fearful all de same. It’s my brudder, — it’s my brudder 
Shakie.” 

“ What !” we all cried in concert. “ He’s dead ?” 

“ Yais,” replied Mr. Sonnenschein, sinking into a chair, the pic- 
ture of a man prostrated and undone by grief. “ Yais, he’s daid, my 
brudder Shakie’s daid.” After a brief pause, in a sudden passionate 
outburst : “ Ach Gott, and ve vas tervins !” 

He bowed his head, and for a little while his sorrow seemed to 
deprive him of the power of speech. The rest of us, too, kept 
silence. We were surprised to see him so painfully affected, but we 
were also very much impressed. 

Presently he raised his head, and slowly, in a shaken voice, went 
on: “Yais, Shakie’s daid. It’s about two monts ago already I got 
de news. Vail, it pretty nearly broke my heart. Him and me vas 
tervins. . . . Poor Shakie ! He vas an awful ^^oo^-hearted shentle- 
man, and he hadn’t oughter been taken avay. Oh, vail, I suppose 
his time haid come. He vas fearful old ; and I guess maybe his time 
haid come. He couldn’t expect to live foraifer ; his time haid come; 
and so he haid to die. Vail, dis is a hart vorld ; an outracheous hart 
vorld, dere’s no two vays about it : but de Lord mait it, and I suppose 
he haid some reason for it. Boruch dajir ernes T With that pious 
ejaculation, — Blessed be the Most High Judge, — he again bowed his 
head, and held his peace. 

Some minutes passed in unbroken silence. Then, all at once, Mr. 
Sonnenschein drew a deep loud sigh and straightened up. He gave 
his shoulders a prodigious shrug, as if to shake off his spiritual burden ; 
he passed his hands over his face, as if to wipe away the shadows that 
darkened it. . . . Abruptly, with a sudden change of mien and man- 
ner, — eyes lighted by their familiar happy smile, — voice vibrant with 
its familiar jubilant ring, — “ But I got de money,” he cried. “ I got 
terventy-nine tousand, seven hooiiert and sixty tollars ; and I’ve come ofer 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN’S INHERITANCE. 


661 


to haif you conkratulate me. I only got it de day before yesterday, or 
IM haif come around sooner. I hope you von’t mind, but I brought a 
couple bottles champagne along, to celebrate mit. You folks, you been 
awful friendly to me fen I vas poor already, and you vas raikular cus- 
tomers of mine ; so, now I vas rich, I tought I like to give you a little 
treat.^^ 

With that he undid the mysterious paper parcel^ which we had 
noticed at his entrance, and produced surely enough a couple of bottles 
of champagne. 

‘‘Fill oop your glaisses,’^ he urged. “Fill ^em oop. Don’t be 
afraid of it. It’s chenu-wine. Vail, here goes! Shalom alechem! 
Peace to you ! Drink hearty. Dere’s plenty more fere dot comes 
from.” 

The gayety of the company was speedily restored, and we drank to 
our old friend’s prosperity with right good will. 

“ Yais,” he said, smacking his lips upon a bumper of his wine, “ I 
got de money de day before yesterday. I got a draift on de bainking 
estaiblishment of Schaumberg, Knaus, Bauer & Co., down in Villiam 
Street. I ain’t haid it caished yet. Dere it is.” 

He had unbuttoned his coat, and extracted from its inside pocket a 
dilapidated leather wallet. Out of this he picked his draft, and handed 
it to me for circulation around the table. The amount w'as, as he had 
said, $29,760. 

“ Well, Mr. Sonnenschein,” my father asked, “ how do you propose 
to invest this money ? Can I be of any assistance to you in attending 
to its investment?” 

“ Vail, no, I guess not, tank you,” he returned. “ It’s awful gooU 
nechered of you to make de oaffer ; but I guess not, tank you all de 
same. No ; to tell you de honest troot, I don’t make no investments 
of dot money; I keep de caish. You see, I vas a Sclilemiel. Vail, a 
Schlemiel is a party who’s bount to haif bait luck. Vail, if I put dot 
money in de baink, de first ting I know, de baink ’ll bust. Or else, 
if I buy stoacks mit it, de stoack company vill fail ; or coverment 
boants, de coverment vill get into a var. If I put it in a mowgage on 
real estate, de title to dot real estate vould be defaicted. Dere’s no two 
vays about it. I vas a Schlemiel. No, sir, I don’t make no invest- 
ments of dot money; I be sure to lose it, dere ain’t no use in talking. 
But I tell you fat I do. I tought it all ofer in my own mind, and now 
I tell you fat I do. To-morrer morning I go down-town, and I call 
at de office of Schaumberg, Knaus, Bauer & Co., in Villiam Street, and 
I get dot draift caished, — hey? Vail, den I take dot caish baick oop- 
town again mit me; and I go to my friend Mr. Solomon Ijevinson, 
who keeps a second-haint clodings estaiblishment in de basement of de 
house I live in ; and I aisk Mr. Levinson to put dot caish in his chenu- 
wine burglar-proof safe, and keep it for me, — you understand? Vail, 
den fen me and Nettie needs some money, den I go to dot safe, and 
I take out a hoonert tollars, — you see de point? Tirty tousand tollars ! 
My kracious, dot’s enough to laist me and Nettie longer as ve eider of 
us lives; it is, honor bright. Ve ain’t extraivagant, and ve ain’t got 
no heirs to feel disappointed if ve don’t leaf no fortune. No, sir; 1 


662 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE. 


vas a Schlemiel. I don’t make no investments of dot money; I be 
sure to lose it. I keep de caish.” 

Unanimously and vehemently we protested against this course. We 
labored long and hard to convince him of its rash unwisdom. We as- 
sured him that of all the possible dispositions of his money which he 
could make, this was the wildest, the most hazardous ; and we invoked 
every argument by which a reasonable human being could be moved to 
vindicate our proposition. 

He heard us respectfully to the end, while a tolerant smile played 
about his lips. Then he rejoined, Dot’s all right. Fat you folks 
say is shust exaictly so. You got an awful lot of sense about you, and 
you arkue simply splendid, — especially Saimmy. My kracious, if 
Saimmy vas to go to de laichislature, he’d make a chenu-wine sensa- 
tion, he arkues so goot. He vas a necheral debater, dere’s no two vays 
about it. But I tell you how it is. Dere’s a proverb fich goes, ‘ Cir- 
cumstainces alter cases.’ Vail, dot’s an aictual faict; dey do, and no 
mistake. Vail, now I tell you how it is. You see, I vas a Schlemiel. 
Vail, a Schlemiel is a party who’s bount to haif bait luck. Vail, if I 
make ainy investments of dot money, I be sure to lose it; I vould, 
honor bright. So, I don’t make no investments of it. I don’t run no 
risks. I keep de caish.” ' 

So that, despite the splendor of our arguments, we might as well 
have addressed them to a stone post. Finally, in despair of reaching 
his intelligence, we appealed to his good-nature, imploring him, if not 
for his own sake, if not for Nettie’s, then for ours, to intrust the 
practical management of his inberitance to more experienced heads. 

Again he heard us patiently to the end. Then he made answer, 
^^You folks, you’re awful friendly to take so much trouble on my 
account ; you simply are. And I’m fearful much obliged to you, and 
so vould Nettie be if she vas here. But I tell you how it is. You see, 
I vas a Schlemiel. Vail, if a party’s a Schlemiel, dere ain’t no use in 
talking, he’s bount to haif bait luck. Vail, if I invest dot money, I 
be aibsolutely sure to lose it, I vould, and no mistake. So, I stay on 
de safe side. I don’t run no risks. I keep de caish.” 

Look here, Mr. Sonnenschein,” my father said at last ; you buy 
government bonds with your money, and I’ll insure you against all 
possible loss, by making myself personally responsible in case of any- 
thing happening. If the government gets into a war, or repudiates its 
debt, or if through any other cause the bonds shrink in value. I’ll pay 
you from my own pocket the full amount of your losses. Come, that 
would render you perfectly secure.” 

My kracious !” cried Mr. Sonnenschein. Talk about gooU 
necher! Vail, dot beats de record. I naifer seen nobody so gooU 
nechered as you are in all my life before. It’s vunderful, it simply is. 
I guess maybe you vas about de 6es^-nechered shentleman dot vas 
aifer born ; I do, honor bright. But I tell you how it is. You see, I 
vas a Schlemiel. Vail, if I invest dot money, I be sure to lose it vun 
vay or anudder, dere ain’t no kervestion about it. Vail, you don’t 
suppose I vant to make an old friend like you lose his money too ! 
No, sir ; not much ; I ain’t so mean as dot. But I tell you fat I do. 


MR. SONNENSGHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 


663 


I tought it all ofer, and now I tell you fat I mait oop my mind to do. 
I keep de caish. Mr. Levinson’s burglar-proof safe is goot enough 
for me.” 

And so he went away, leaving us in an exasperated and anxious 
frame of mind. We tried hard to hope for the best; but how could 
we help fearing the worst? To invite disaster by keeping so large a 
sum of ready money lying exposed in another man’s safe, — who but a 
Schlemiel could be guilty of such unmitigated folly ? 


IV. 

SCHIiEMIEIi^S PEN. 

It was rather more than a week later that the post brought me one 
morning a letter, written in a cramped foreign hand, of which the 
following is a true and perfect copy : 

BIER Sammy ! 

ime Konfeint to de Haus bei a fieful Kolt an de het and Lonks 
and, i Kand go autt for fier i gett vurs But i leik, to sie You as i got 
a Fieful gut schoke to tell you and Den annyhau Ime lonsum and i 
leik to Sie you for Kumpny to schier Me up vel days ane ole vumin 
of de nehmer rebekah doz our Haus vork for Us aiid her and nettie is 
Die onelie piepul i sie Ole Day so i gett Kein der Lonsum and i leik 
to sie you to tell You dat Schoke vel ittul mehk you Laff to dei sammy 
it vil and no mistek vel if a parties a Schlemiel day ant no Yous in 
toking Hies gott to haf bat luck, vel kum sie Me sammy for i gess 
Mabie mei time is com i do on a Brite, ime a fieful ole Gentulmin you 
no and de Doktor sais I Gott a bat kase Braun Kietiz, Kom sie me 
enyhau de Doktor sed, it ant Kesching. giv my Lof papa and mama 
your 

Gut Frent 

E. SONNENSCHEIN !” 

I found this epistle lying in wait for me on the breakfast-table. 
After I had made what sense of it I could, I passed it over to my 
mother, saying, I’ll stop in and see him on my way down-town.” 

I’ll go with you,” my mother volunteered, some fifteen minutes 
later, after the sensation created by the exhibition to the rest of the 
family of Mr. Sonnenschein’s effort had subsided. Poor old man ! 
Perhaps there’s something I can do to make him comfortable.” 

So, together, my mother and I set out for Tompkins Square. 


V. 

SCHLEMIEL^S ‘‘ SCHOKE. 

Our greeting over, and our inquiries concerning the exact state of 
his health satisfactorily answered (he had indeed a bad cold, but was 
not nearly so ill as we had feared to find him) : Vail, now, Saimmy,” 
began Mr. Sonnenschein, as I told you a great mainy times already, 
dis is a vunderful vorld. By and by, fen you get so old as me, you’ll 


664 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE. 


say de same ting ; dough now, file you’re young, you might imachine 
dot I vas only fooling. My kracious, fen I link about how vnnderful 
it really is, — vail, Saimmy, I’m aictually aistonished, — vail, honor 
bright, I cain’t hartly belief it. Vail, now look at here. I vas a 
Schlemiel, hey? Vail, a Sclilemiel is a party who’s bount to haif 
bait luck, ain’t he? No maitter fat he does, no maitter fat pre- 
cowi:ionshe takes, he cain’t help it; he’s got to haif bait luck. Vail, 
now look at here. It’s shust exaictly about two veeks ago already I 
got dot draift from de e^^^s-hecutor of my brudder Shakie ofer in 
Chairmany. Vail, I guess maybe I told you I vasn’t going to make 
no investments of dot money, becoase, as I vas a Schlemiel, I be sure 
to lose it. I guess maybe I told you I vas going to keep de caish. 
Yais, I tought it all ofer, and I mait oop my mind dot I better stay 
on de safe side and keep de caish. Vail, now look at here. De very 
next day aifter I seen you, I vent down-town to de office of Schaum- 
berg, Knaus, Bauer & Co., in Villiam Street, and I got dot draift 
caished. I got terventy-nine vun-tousand-tollar pills, vun fife-hoonert- 
tollar pill, two vun-hoonert-tollar pills, and de ott sixty tollars in fifes 
and tens. Vail, Saimmy, den I done all dot money oop, except dose 
ott sixty tollars, fich I kep in my poacket, I done it all oop mit paper 
in a poontle, and I vent to my friend Mr. Solomon Levinson, who 
keeps a second-haint clodings estaiblishment down-stairs in de base- 
ment ; and I aisked Mr. Levinson to put dot poontle inside his chenu- 
wine burglar-proof safe and keep it for me ; and Mr. Levinson he done 
it. He put it inside on de toap shelf, file I stood dere and seen him. 
Vail, Saimmy, Mr. Levinson he’s got a lot of curiosity about him, 
fich is only necheral ; and so, as I vas leafing, Mr. Levinson he aisked 
me if I haid ainy op-shections to informing him fat dot poontle con- 
tained. Vail, I tought to myself, ‘I guess maybe I better not let 
nobody know how much money dere is in dot poontle ;’ so I said to 
Mr. Levinson, ^ Fy, certainly; I ain’t got no op-shections. It con- 
tains old loaf-letters.’ Dot’s fat I said to Mr. Levinson. Vail, dot 
was pretty goot for an oaff-hainder, vasn’t it, Saimmy? Vail, now 
look at here. Vail, I suppose you’d tink dere vasn’t vun chaince 
in a hoonert tousand of ayiydings haippening to dot money, now it 
vas loacked oop in Mr. Levinson’s burglar-proof safe, vouldn’t you, 
Saimmy ? Vail, now look at here. Now you’ll see shust exaictly how 
it is fen a party’s a Schlemiel. You’ll see fat a vnnderful vorld dis 
is. Vail, de day Mr. Levinson put dot money inside his safe vas 
Friday. Vail, den it stainds to reason de next day vas Schabbas 
(Sabbath); don’t it, Saimmy J? Vail, maybe you vouldn’t belief me, 
— you might tink I vas trying to fool you, — but, honor bright, — 
I hope to die de next minute if it ain’t a faict,— dot very same night, 
— Sotturday night, — aifter ve vas gone to bait, — vail, Saimmy, I bet 
you a brain-new fife tollar silk hat you cain’t guess fat haippened. 
You take de bet? No? You gif it oop? Hey? Vail, now look 
at here. Dot very same night, — Sotturday night, — vail, Mr. Levinson 
he haid a fire in his estaiblishment, and my money got burned oop, — 
aifery red cent of it got burned to cinters !” 

Of course we cried out in horror and consternation. But we had 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE. 


665 


no words in our vocabulary eloquent enough to do justice to the 
catastrophe; and we very soon relapsed into a dazed and helpless 
silence. Then Mr. Sonnenschein went placidly on : Vail, it vas hart 
luck, outracheous hart luck, dot^s an aictual faict. It vas raikular 
Schleraiers luck, dere^s no two vays about it. But fat could you ex- 
pect ? It vas bount to haippen. I vas bount to lose dot money vun 
vay or anudder, dere ain’t no use in talking. Vail, you got to learn in 
dis vorld to take tings as dey come and part mit ’em as dey go ; dot’s 
all dere is about it. Vail, now look at here. Now I tell you de par- 
ticulars. Dera’s de funniest part of de whole business.” 

The particulars were simple enough. Between eleven and twelve 
o’clock on Saturday night he and Nettie had been roused from their 
sleep by firemen breaking into their apartment and announcing that 
the house was afire. Tiie firemen carried Nettie to the street, Mr. 
Sonnenschein following. The fire, it seemed, had started in Mr. Levin- 
son’s ‘‘ estaiblishment,” and before it had gained much headway the 
firemen succeeded in putting it^out. The tenants were then allowed to 
return to their beds. Dot’s how I caught dis case brownchitis, setting 
still outside dere in de street, fich vas fearful cold, mitout no clodings on 
to speak of, file de firemen dey put dot fire out.” Jt never once entered 
Mr. Sonnenschein’s head to fear that his fortune was in danger, for ‘‘ I 
tought of course it vas loacked oop in Mr. Levinson’s chenu-wine burg- 
lar- and fire-proof safe.” But the next morning Mr. Levinson came to 
see him, and explained that, as his safe had been somewhat crowded 
with matter the day before, he had removed Mr. Sonnenschein’s bundle 
of old letters and placed it in the cupboard of his writing-desk. And 
den, of course, as I vas a Schlemiel, dot estaiblishment haid to ketch 
fire, and dot writing-desk, mit aiferydings inside of it, get burned oop. 
Raikular Schlemiel’s luck, ain’t it, Saimmy? . . . Vail, aifter all, it 
don’t make much difference. Fen I got dot money I mait oop my mind 
dot I’d retire from business, and be a shentleman of leisure. Vail, 
now I simply got to go baick into business again; dot’s all dere is 


VI. 

SCHLEraEL’S FRIEND. 

My mother and I parted company at Mr. Sonnenschein’s door, she 
to return home, I to pursue my downward journey to my office. As I 
walked along, however, an idea, a suspicion, began to wax strong in 
my mind ; dominated by which, I presently changed my course, and, 
entering the head-quarters of the Fire Department, in Mercer Street, 
asked to see the Fire-Marshal, Mr. Sparks, a gentleman with whom 
I was fortunate enough to have some personal acquaintance. Two 
minutes later he and I were closeted together. 

I dare say you remember a fire that occurred last Saturday night, 
up on Tompkins Square, in the shop of a second-hand clothing-dealer, 
named Levinson ?” I inquired. 

‘‘Yes,” the Fire Marshal answered. “ I remember it.” 

“Well, would you mind telling me whether there was anything 


666 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE. 


suspicious about it ? — whether there were any circumstances to indicate 
that it was of incendiary origin 

Whenever a fire occurs in premises occupied by a gentleman of 
Mr. Levinson’s race, class, and profession, I may say it is suspicious. 
Those low-class Polish Jews think no more of setting fire to a house, 
if they’ve anything to gain by it, than they do of lying. But in this 
particular case suspicion is disarmed by the fact that Levinson, strange 
to say, carried no insurance. So, you see, we have no evidence of 
motive. Why do you ask ?” 

‘‘Well, I’ll tell you. On the day before the fire, — that is, on 
Friday, — an old man named Sonnenschein deposited a very large sum 
of money — thirty thousand dollars, indeed, in greenbacks — with this 
Levinson for safe-keeping. After the fire, Levinson claimed that Son- 
nenschein’s money had been burned up. Now it occurred to me that 
perhaps Levinson had quietly pocketed the thirty thousand dollars, and 
then kindled the fire to account for its disappearance. If this supposi- 
tion is reasonable, the fact that he carried no insurance doesn’t signify.” 

“ By Jupiter !” cried the Fire Marshal, thumping his desk. “ That’s 
the missing link. Tell me every detail of this transaction. I begin 
to see light.” 

I told him the whole story. 

“ Why, it’s as clear as day,” was his comment, when I had finished. 
“ We’ll have Levinson on his knees here before us within half an hour.” 
And Mr. Sparks left the room. 

When he came back, a minute or two later, he explained that he 
had sent a messenger to Mr. Levinson’s place of business, with an in- 
vitation to that worthy to favor the Fire Marshal with his company at 
once. “ Now, you sit down behind this screen,” he said to me, “ where 
you can see without being seen. Levinson must fancy that he is alone 
with me. I think I can promise you some entertainment.” 

In due time the door opened, and Mr. Levinson was ushered in : a 
short, thick-set individual, with bushy black hair and beard, sallow 
complexion, and low, squat, oily features. His small black eyes darted 
inquiringly from side to side ; his fingers, fat and stubby, toyed with 
the brim of his hat; and about his mouth flickered a conciliatory 
smirk. These low-class Polish Jews, as the Fire Marshal had called 
them, all look pretty much alike ; there is an astonishing poverty of 
types among them : take the first old-clothes or glass-put-in man who 
comes along, and he’ll answer fairly well for Mr. Levinson. His age, 
I guessed, was in the neighborhood of forty-five. As for his person, 
it would have been base flattery to call it dirty. It was unspeakable. 
I could not help feeling that by its presence it soiled the atmosphere of 
the room ; and I breathed with a poor relish as long as Mr. Levinson 
and I remained within gun-shot of each other. 

“ Levinson,” began Mr. Sparks, in a tame and business-like tone 
of voice, “ you are under arrest for the crime of arson in the first 
degree. I’ve found out all about that little fire of yours ; I know just 
how, when, and why you started it. Setting fire to an occupied 
dwelling-house in the night time constitutes, as I say, arson in the first 
degree, the penalty for which is imprisonment for life. You remember 


MR, SONNENSCHEIN’S INHERITANCE. 


667 


the case of Perlstein, Bernstein, and Cohen Davis, don’t you, Levin- 
son? Well, here you’ve gone and got yourself into the same box 
with them. In a few days now you’ll be keeping them company up 
in Sing Sing. Well, twenty-nine thousand seven hundred dollars is a 
comfortable sum of money, but hardly worth imprisonment for life, I 
should think. And then, you did the job so clumsily. You gave 
yourself dead away, and assured your own conviction. I don’t think I 
ever saw a worse piece of work, Levinson. You ought to have waited 
a month or so at least. The money would have kept, and your risk of 
getting caught would have been Infinitely diminished. But it’s too late 
now, Levinson, and there’s no use repining. You were in a hurry, 
you were careless, and so — here you are. You’ve made your own bed, 
and now you’ve got to lie in it. I shall send you from here straight 
down to the Tombs. You’ll come up for trial on Monday morning; 
and on Tuesday you’ll take the train for Sing Sing, to stay there the 
rest of your life. The officer is waiting for you in the next room with 
his hand-cufiPs. Before I turn you over to him, have you anything you 
wish to say ?” 

Ach Gott, Fire Marshal !” cried Levinson, whose sallow skin 
(as I could see through a convenient crack in the screen behind which 
I was in ambush) had turned several shades sallower, and whose frame 
was shaking as if with cold. For Gott’s sake. Fire Marshal, don’t 
be so hart mit me. Dot fire, I couldn’t help it, it vas an Occident, so 
help me Gott. Ach, Fire Marshal, tink of my vife and children. Don’t 
be so hart. Ach, Fire Marshal, for de love of Gott, don’t say Sin^ Sing.” 

^^You ought to have thought of your wife and children, Levinson. 
You ought to have thought of them before you started the fire. You 
didn’t give much thought to the other people’s wives and children, who 
were sleeping in that house, and who might have been burned to death, 
did you, Levinson? It’s too late now. You know the law.” . 

But, my Gott, Fire Marshal, it vas such a leettle fire, and all in 
my own place of business. You vouldn’t ponish a man for a leettle 
fire like dot, de same as if de whole house burned down. For Gott’s 
sake, Fire Marshal, dot vould be too hart.” 

It wasn’t your fault, Levinson, that the whole house didn’t burn 
down. It might have done so. As I said, lives might have been lost, 
in which case you’d have been hanged. No, there’s no hope for you. 
State Prison for life will be your sentence.” 

Ach, Fire Marshal, you’re a good-natured man. Ach, I vouldn’t 
belief you could be so hart. If anudder man told me you could be so 
hart, I vouldn’t belief him. Ach, for Gott’s sake, Fire Marshal, don’t 
say Sing Sing. Ach, for Gott’s sake, help me. I never done nodings 
of de kind before. Help me. Fire Marshal ; Gott vili revard you for it.” 

Well, Levinson, if you want me to help you, first of all tell me 
this : what have you done with the money ?” 

As sudden as a flash, a look of blank incomprehension shot over 
Levinson’s face. Money?” he repeated, in a puzzled key. Money? 
What money ?” 

Look here, Levinson,” cried the Marshal, sternly, I’ll have none 
of that. If you are not frank with me. I’ll turn you over to my 


668 


MR. SONNENSCHEJN\S INHERITANCE. 


officer at once. If. you want me to help you, you must tell me the 
whole truth freely. Now, what have you done with the twenty-nine 
thousand dollars that old Sonnenschein left with you, to keep for him 

Ach, Fire Marshal, you’re de hartest man I ever seen. You’re 
fearful hart. What I done mit dot money ? Good Gott, what should 
I do mit it? I kep it, Fire Marshal. I got it yet. I got it in my 
store.” 

Well, now, Levinson, I’ll tell you wliat I’ll do. You refund 
every penny of that money instantly, and I’ll do as much as I can to 
have them let you down easily.” 

Every penny ! Ach, Fire Marshal, for Gott’s sake, don’t talk 
like dot. Don’t say every penny. I’m a poor man, Fire Marslial ; I 
am, so help me Gott. You don’t want to ruin me, Fire Marshal. 
You can’t be so hart as dot. Say half. Fire Marshal. Say fifteen 
tousand dollars, and I do it.” 

“ Look here, Levinson ; I told you I’d have no fooling. You’ll 
refund every penny of that money, or you’ll go to State Prison for life. 
And you’ve got to make your choice quickly, too. I’m tired of beat- 
ing about the bush. Will you or will you not go with me now to your 
store, and put every dollar of that money into my hands ? I Avant an 
immediate answer.” 

Good Gott !” cried Levinson, fairly writhing in anguish. Then, 
Well, Fire Marshal, come along.” 

A ])rocession was formed, Mr. Levinson and the Marshal leading, a 
policeman and myself bringing up the rear. In this order we marched 
to Levinson’s shop. 

Levinson handed a paper parcel to Mr. Sparks. We examined its 
contents. They were: twenty-nine one-thousand-dollar bills, one five- 
hundred-dollar bill, and two one-hundred-dollar bills, thus answering 
accurately to Mr. Sonnenschein’s description. 

‘^Now, officer,” said the Marshal, addressing the policeman, ^^take^ 
this gentleman to the Tombs. Good-by, Levinson. I’ll see you 
later.” 

A few days afterward, by the Fire Marshal’s intercession, Levin- 
son was allowed to enter a plea of guilty to a minor degree of arson ; 
and the court sentenced him to confinement at hard labor in the State 
Prison for a term of ten years. 

VII. 

SCHLEMIEL^S GRATITUDE. 


Mr. Sparks and I climbed up-stairs to Mr. Sonnenschein’s tene- 
ment. 

‘‘Vail, my kracious, Saimmy, fat brings you baick again so soon?” 
was the old man’s greeting. 

As briefly and as clearly as I could I explained what had happened 
since my former visit. 

Mein Ooit! You don’t mean it!” he cried, when I was done. 
“ Go ’vay. Yon don’t really mean it I Mr. Levinson, he set fire to dot 
estaiblishment, and you got baick de money? Vail, if I aifer? Vail, 
dot beats de record; it doej5, and no mistake. Talk about brains! 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE. 


669 


Fy, Saimmy, smartness ain’t no vord for it. You got vun of de 
graindest baits on your shoulders de Lord aifer mait. And Mr. Levin- 
son, he aictually set fire to dot estaiblishment, so as to get my money 1 
Vail, dot VOS outracheous, dere ain’t no use in talking. Vail, Saimmy, 
I cain’t hardly belief it ; I cain’t, honor bright.” 

The Marshal was busy with pen and ink at a table hard by, draw- 
ing up an affidavit and a receipt for Mr. Sonnenschein to sign and sw^ear 
to. After the old man had laboriously traced his name and vouched 
for the truth of what was written above it, the Marshal handed him 
the bundle containing his inheritance, and, covered with thanks from 
both of us, went away. 

Vail, now, Saimmy,” said Mr. Sonnenschein, ^^now I tell you fat 
you do. You cairry dot poontle down-town mit you, and you go to 
your popper’s office, and you gif it to him, and you tell him to make 
all de investments of dot money fich he likes. Dere’s no two vays 
about it, Saimmy, I vas a raikular Schlemiel ; and I guess maybe de 
best ting I can do is to let your popper mainage dot money shust 
exaictly as if it vas his own. No maitter fat investments he makes 
of it, Saimmy, I tell you vun ting, I bet a hat dot vun vay or 
anudder dot money gets lost inside six monts. Vail, Saimmy, as I 
told you a great mainy times before already, dis is a fearful funny 
vorld ; and I guess maybe now, aifter dis fire and aiferydings, I guess 
maybe you’ll belief me.” 

My father made such investments of dot money” as would yield 
Mr. Sonnenschein an annual income of fifteen hundred dollars, which 
the old gentleman, still hale and hearty, is enjoying to this day. 
Though a Jew by birth and faith, he is as good a Christian as most of 
the professing ones; for after he learned of Levinson’s imprisonment he 
insisted upon making a liberal provision for Mrs. Levinson and her 
children. Nor is ingratitude a vice that could justly be attributed to our 
Schlemiel. When my parents celebrated the thirtieth anniversary of 
their w'edding, a few months ago, they received by express a large 
and luminous worsted-work picture, enclosed by a massive gilt frame, 
which represented in the primary colors the nuptial ceremonies of 
Jacob and Rachel. A card attached informed them that it came with 
compliments and best wishes from Mr. Sonnenschein and Nettie, and 
on the obverse of the card, in Mr. Sonnenschein’s chirography, we read, 

Nettie dun it Ole herself” 

But his continued prosperity has undermined the old man’s phi- 
losophy and upset all his established views of life. He calls at my 
father’s office to receive his allowance on the first day of every month. 

Vail, ainydings haippened yet ?” is the inquiry with which he in- 
variably begins. And when my father replies that nothing has hap- 
pened, and proceeds to count out his money, Vail, Gott in Himmely 
fat kind of a vorld is dis, ainyhow !” he cries. I gif it oop. I 
cain’t make haits or tails of it. Here I been a Schlemiel aifer since I 
vas born already, and now all of a sutten I change ofer, and I ain’t no 
Schlemiel no more. Vail, dot beats me, — it beats me all holler, and 
no mistake about it. But de Lord done it, and I guess maybe he’s 
got some reason for it. Blessed be de name of de Lord !” 

VoL XLI.-48 


670 


THE HOUSE OF HATE. 


THE HOUSE OF HATE. 

M ine enemy builded well, with the soft blue hills in sight ; 

But betwixt his house and the hills I builded a house for spite ; 
And the name thereof I set in the stone- work over the gate, 

With a carving of bats and apes; and I called it The House of Hate. 

And the front was alive with masks of malice and of despair, 

Horned demons that leered in stone, and women with serpent hair ; 
That whenever his glance would rest on the soft hills far and blue. 

It must fall on mine evil work, and my hatred should pierce him 
through. 

And I said, I will dwell herein, for beholding my heart’s desire 
On my foe,” and I knelt, and fain had brightened the hearth with fire ; 
But the brands they would hiss and die, as with curses a strangled 
man, 

And the hearth was cold from the hour that the House of Hate began. 

And I called with a voice of power, Make ye merry, all friends of 
mine. 

In the hall of my House of Hate, where is plentiful store, and wine ; 
We will drink unhealth together unto him I have foiled and fooled !” 
And they stared and they passed me by ; but I scorned to be thereby 
schooled. 

And I ordered my board for feast, and I drank in the topmost seat 
Choice grape from a curious cup ; and the first it was wonder-sweet; 
But the second was bitter indeed, and the third was bitter and black, 
And the gloom of the grave came on me, and I cast the cup to wrack. 

Alone, I was stark alone, and the shadows were each a fear, 

And thinly I laughed, but once, for the echoes were strange to hear; 
And the wind on the stairway howled, as a green-eyed wolf might cry. 
And I heard my heart : I must look on the face of a man, or die ! 

So I crept to my mirrored face, and I looked, and I saw it grown 
(By the light in my shaking hand) to the like of the masks of stone; 
And with horror I shrieked aloud as I flung my torch and fled ; 

And a fire-snake writhed where it fell, and at midnight the sky was 
red. 

And at morn, when the House of Hate was a ruin, despoiled of flame, 
I fell at mine enemy’s feet, and besought him to slay my shame. 

But he looked in mine eyes and smiled, and his eyes were calm and 
great : 

You rave, or have dreamed,” he said : I saw not your House of 
Hate !” 


AMONG MY WEEDS, 


671 


AMONG MY WEEDS. 

P OETS as well as many other professed lovers of the beautiful have 
written books about their walks among the flowers and their 
pleasant play-work among their roses. And all this is well. But I 
have thought that maybe I could widen the reach of vision for some 
of my fellow-lovers of the beautiful things of this wondrously beautiful 
world by telling something about weeds. 

From youth upward to this hour my path has led much of the 
time through these humbler testaments of beauty, and always close to 
the border of them : so you see I know the weeds well. And I say 
at the outset that it is not wise that the domain of man in his love and 
cherishing of the beautiful shall end where the roses and flowers leave 
off and the weeds begin. 

For example, the precious waxen-like hyacinth, which you may 
find growing in thousands of windows in any city, is the one ever- 
present weed in Oregon. It purples and pinks and whitens tens of 
thousands of square miles of that vast State, from the mouth of the 
Columbia to the head-waters of the Willamette. The root or bulb of 
this weed was the one principal food of the Indians, and even of the 
early settlers of Oregon. It is called eamas at home, and is good 
food. 

A few summers ago I was a guest at one of the finest of the many 
fine summer homes of New Bedford. The gentle and cultured hostess 
took the earliest occasion to show me her wonderful little forest of rhodo- 
dendrons. And beautiful it was, too, — one of the most beautiful things 
to see in all the beautiful environs of wealthy and aristocratic New Bed- 
ford. The gardener told me one day, in a gush of mixed-up confidence 
and enthusiasm, that this little half-acre of rhododendrons cost about 
five hundred dollars, to say nothing at all of the annual expense of 
keeping it alive and in order away up there on the edge of the Ice- 
land. 

But let me inform you that the hunter as well as the small farmer 
in the Sierra of California finds the rhododendron so dense and general 
on the mountain-slopes, where it has flourished as a sort of forest-tree 
for all time perhaps, that it is a great nuisance. 

In fact, no amount of culture or patient employment at New Bed- 
ford can make this glorious bush half so rank and beautiful as it is 
willing to make itself in the Sierras. The same may be said* of the 
camaSy or hyacinth. And I am sure that to those who are careful of 
the economies both in art and nature, I need demonstrate no longer on 
this point than to suggest that ever so much would be saved if the 
farmer in the West, as well as wealthy people in the East, would let the 
camas and the rhododendron flourish in their native places entirely. In 
this age of the annihilation of space New Bedford would find it far 
more economical to go to the Pacific and look upon these fields and 
forests of native weeds and bushes. And this economy would enable 


672 


AMONG MV WEEDS. 


her to admit many of the despised and down-trodden weeds that have 
knocked at her garden-gates for admission all these years, while she 
has been trying, against the consent of soil and climate, to make such 
unwilling prisoners as these I have mentioned flourish and feel at 
home. 

I have only set down these two examples in order to indicate in a 
general way what I should like to teach in this lesson on weeds. I do 
not quite know what weeds or wild flowers New Bedford or any other 
like ricli city of the North could take to her heart from out her lanes 
and fence-corners and by-ways, but I remember seeing cranberries grow- 
ing in the road by the sea-shore, trodden under foot and quite despised 
in the lowly struggle and patient effort to make this beautiful world 
more beautiful. And I suggest that New Bedford take this useful as 
well as ornamental berry to her bosom, among others, and see what can 
be made of it. Surely, surely the cranberry of New Bedford would not 
be quite as sour if my sweet hostess there should smile upon it. 

When I sat down here on the summit of Meridian Hill at Wash- 
ington I found myself on the most barren bit of earth in all this region. 
And that is saying that this portion of the worn-out land is barren in- 
deed. And there has been great reason for this. General Washington, 
the story runs, indicated this spot as the place in which to set-up the 
meridian stone, saying that our independence of England would not be 
completed until the nation established its own meridian. And here the 
meridian stone was set up during the administration of Jefferson. Of 
course this did not enrich the stony soil at all, but the attrition of many 
feet through all the years brought the stones to the surface and kept 
tlie place bare and barren. Then during the war the soldiers dug up 
the stony earth and made breastworks, and this left not a shrub or 
spear of grass. As evidence that war and barrenness instead of peace 
and flowers flourished here of old, I have several Indian arrow-heads 
on my mantel-piece, and a rusty and ugly old cannon-ball in a fence- 
corner, — all dug up from the stony surface of my limited plot of ground 
on Meridian Hill. 

Did you ever hear of a crop” of stones ? I employed an old black 
man when I first came here to gather up the stones — nigger-heads,” 
as tliey are called by some — and pile them up in the fence-corners. I 
paid him well, for I was glad to get them out of my way, and thought 
this was the end of it. But the old man turned the silver in his hands, 
twisted his hat, and said that he should like the job of gathering the 
next crap.” 

Sure enough, each year about the same number of stones insist on 
coming to the surface. The old black man has gathered his fourth 
crap” of stones for me on Meridian Hill. He firmly believes, and 
so do all the numerous negroes here, that they grow up out of the 
ground the same as anything else. We know, however, that it is the 
washing away and the settling down of the earth that lays the stones 
bare, and, besides that, the pick and spade bring some to the surface 
that otherwise might not be seen. 

The first signs of life here in the spring, after I had got my cabin 
and fences up and the visible stones in the corners, was a sudden raid 


AMONG MY WEEDS. 


673 


of sorrel. It stood up as bravely as soldiers on parade, facing the sun, 
where the small gravel-stones lay thickest. It was pretty, certainly far 
prettier than the barren ground, and I was glad. But my neighbors 
came leaning over the fence on either side and laughed at my admira- 
tion most heartily. I am sandwiched in between two army officers who 
have broad garden-plots and plenty of money, and so they destroy 
whatever weeds they please to destroy and cultivate whatever accepted 
and popular flowers they please to cultivate. 

But out of sheer necessity my sorrel had to keep its gravel bed. I 
had neither the time nor money to uproot it and replace it with a come- 
lier plant. And, besides that, there was a touch of tenderness in its 
humility. It had taken the lowliest seat, it had valiantly taken the 
most barren and forbidding place on all the barren heights, meekly, 
modestly, unobtrusively. And no one could say that it was not daily, 
hourly making the place more beautiful. 

You must not let it ripen/^ said one of my martial neighbors one 
day. It will blow its seeds all over the place, and we have been fight- 
ing sorrel here for ten years.^^ 

This enmity of the whole world, as it seemed, against my humble 
and barely visible little sorrel-bed made me its friend forever. I fell 
to planning how to save it and not injure my neighbors. And, this in 
view, I sent the old black philosopher over into Virginia to dig up and 
bring me from the fence-corners a load of wild raspberries. These we 
set all along my fences in, under, and against the stone-heaps. This 
shut off my sorrel entirely from annoying my neighbors. And let me 
set it down here before I forget it, that I now have annually at least 
five dollars’ worth of the finest berries in the world from these graceful 
companions of the weeds. The long, purple, rainbow-reaches of laden 
stems entirely hide all the stone-heaps, and birds of many kinds make 
their nests and rear their young here. Of all the fortunate accidents 
of my negative sort of gardening here, nothing has brought me more 
profit and pure delight than these despised wild briers, which time out 
of mind have had to hide away under old logs, by abandoned huts, 
forgotten walks, or are at least merely tolerated in the fence-corners of 
half-tended fields. 

To get back to my sorrel. One early morning an old negress with 
a knife and Shaker bucket leaned over my front fence and offered all 
free gratis for nothin’ ” to cut up and take away my sorrel. She wanted 
it for greens.” And delicious greens it makes, too, only it should be 
used as it is used in the south of France, where it is carefully culti- 
vated, as a salad, instead of being boiled with pork or bacon, as it is 
here by the colored people. 

But I stood by my, sorrel, for it was now a continual delight. I 
could almost see it grow. Every spring shower shot it forward and 
widened it out till it completely hid all the gravel-stones and began to 
blossom. And it has a most beautiful flower, — a tall pyramidal mass 
of flowers, in fact; and a variegated mass, too, — yellow and pink and 
rose, — and as it ripens and turns to seed the colors change and glorify 
the God of nature with a continual harmony. 

And what became of my meek and kindly sorrel, the first flower of 


674 


AMONG MY WEEDS. 


the year, the first of all fair things to meet me and make me welcome 
in my new home here? I do not know. As the ground became more 
rich year after year and rested from the continual tramp of folks who 
came here to look down upon the city or to see where Washington had 
drawn the meridian for the Western World, the meek and modest 
sorrel went away as quietly as it came. I never permitted a single 
plant of the little pioneer to be destroyed further than was necessary 
to set out bushes or dig up stones, but you may search in vain for the 
sorrel on my grounds now. The beautiful weed did its work on the 
barren gravel hill-top, and then gave place to something of a more 
bold and pretentious order just so soon as the ground was rich enough 
to support it. 

I ought to explain that I have never kept a gardener. I never yet 
have had my grounds either ploughed or dug up in any way further 
than as before indicated, and this has given opportunity for many 
strange plants and flowers to take refuge here. All are welcome; all 
shall be protected. The ground is poor, but if they can live they shall 
be my companions. In this republic and land of equality I do not 
see why we are to set up an aristocracy of flowers, and at the dictation 
of the gardener and botanist cherish only the prisoners brought at a 
great cost from other lands. And, what is more, I will never assault 
them with the hard and terrible names which I find set down in the 
books for them. They have never done me harm, but every morning 
up through the dew or rain they lift their faces to mine and make me 
very glad as they seek to rise from their grassy beds. No, they shall 
not be named the dreadful names which I find set down in the books 
for them. But May-apple, foxglove, dragon^s-tooth, Johnny-jump- 
up, daisy, buttercup, all the old and baby names tender with the as- 
sociations of childhood and the old paternal home, these shall be theirs 
forever. 

Having obtained a sort of local reputation for harboring all the 
valueless and despised plants and weeds of the country, one of my good 
neighbors laughingly suggested that perhaps I should like to have a 
few mullein-stalks, and accordingly sent them over. 

I planted them in the front yard, near the fence. In fact, I gave 
this poor battered and hated plant the post of honor. Not a carriage- 
load of sight-seers, not a visitor, but did not contemplate those mullein- 
stalks as they began to shoot up in a long graceful line between my 
door and the Washington Monument. 

At first people laughed at the idea and derided the humble weed 
which I had placed in the post of honor and was nourishing with 
all the care and atfection possible to bestow. And was I betrayed by 
this sensitive weed ? Candidly, I have seen nothing more graceful, 
more comely, more completely beautiful, than these mullein-stalks. 
They grew to a tremendous height, one of them twelve feet and four 
inches. See what kindness for only one year in a thousand wdll do. 
And not a man or woman was to be found who did not cheerfully say 
that nothing more beautiful than this lofty rod of gold, with its great 
velvet leaves, could be found in this city of plants and flow^ers. 

An old negress, a sort of doctor, came by as the season moved on. 


AMONG MY WEEDS. 


675 


and insisted on buying the whole lot for medicinal purposes. I sold 
them to her in exchange for her secret knowledge of their medicinal 
properties, which I believe is valuable. 

The story of one more weed (and it is the story of many), and I 
conclude. The first year I came here a poke-berry bush thrust up its 
red, rank stems through the gravel not far from the sorrel, and I was 
glad to see it, for the place was so very bare. I dug about it some, 
shovelled a lot of chips and bark and lime and debris from about the 
new-built cabin, and took what care of it I could without going to any 
cost or extra trouble. 

This despised weed is also eaten by the black people of the humbler 
order, and many an old woman haunted my gate with knife and basket 
in her round about the hill for ‘‘greens.^^ But I would not part with 
my poke-stalk for all their vast and beneficent smiles, and so it soon 
stood as tall as my head. 

Did you ever know that this blood-red and most rank growth has 
taken possession of the battle-fields of the South ? It has. At Bull 
Run it hangs its graceful red stems, laden with bushels of blood-red 
berries, out from every fence-corner and pile of stones. At Fredericks- 
burg you find it all up and down the battle-field, and on every fortress 

Where valor fought in other days. 

The first year my pet poke-stalk in the door-yard of my cabin here 
did not attain to much, but the second and third year — for it grows 
up from the same root for many years — it was a glory to look upon 
from the first burst of spring till the heavy frosts, until at last, 
even now as I write, in middle November, it looms up between my 
window and the National Capitol, the most luxuriant and fervid and 
magnificent weed you ever saw grow. It is more than ten feet in 
height, and its three tall, scarlet stems are laden with berries that would 
make at least a barrel of blood-red ink. The trim and slim stems are 
red, the leaves are red, the berries are red ! Surely it at least suggests 
the burning bush’^ wherein Moses looking into the face of nature 
saw the face of the living God. 

Only yesterday I saw, as I sat at my work here, the President of 
the United States stop his carriage to look at this once lowly and 
despised weed, which has grown to such goodly proportions and to 
such splendor of beauty under decent treatment. 

Let us widen the dominion of our love for flowers, or, rather, let us 
say there are no weeds. And, having accepted and acted on this great 
truth, we will have less trouble in applying this principle to the entire 
human race, and can say that there is no one, without some piteous 
misfortune of birth or breeding, who is perfectly wicked or wholly un- 
lovely. 


676 


A LITTLE BOY^S TALK, 


A LITTLE BOY’S TALK. 

I. 

HIS WILL AND WISH. 

{To his Mother.) 

B ut I could do just anything, that’s what ! 

That isn’t right (that’s all I’ve ever done !), 

If Somebody would let me, who will not, — 

And you’re the one ! 

Well, then, if fairy godmothers come true, 

I’d wish” (and here the small voice grew forlorn), 
I tell you what, mamma, I’d wish — that you 
Were never born !” 

II. 

OF A VISITOR. 

His mother’s maiden friend once shook him, saying 
He laughed and slept in church that afternoon. 
That he had heard the sermon or the praying 
He proved right soon. 

Long in her withering face he looked, to fret her. 
Then called, through all his dimples and disdain, 
Mamma, I think Miss Somebody had better 
Be born again !” 

HIS VIEWS ON THE CUCKOO. 

{In Ireland.) 

The little exile, whose sweet head 
Wore yet the Atlantic sun. 

Threw down his hoop : That’s it,” he said, 

And it if? only one ! 

It can’t behave like other birds 
At home across the sea. 

It tries to make” (I write his words) 

You think it’s more than three ! 

That cuckoo’s not a cuckoo, though,” 

I heard him murmuring; 

It isn’t — anywhere, you know ; 

It isn’t — anything! 

But, somehow, it is — everywhere 
At once ! And I suppose 
It can’t build nests, for it’s — the air ! 

I know a boy that knows !” 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST 


677 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST 

I N the early summer of 1859 I took possession of an old-fashioned 
house on what was once a lane in a rural neighborhood, but is 
now St. John^s Avenue. The Finchley Koad, into which it runs, was 
then bounded by large properties, since cut up and closely built upon. 
The situation was near enough to more populous neighborhoods to 
answer my purpose, and the lease was favorable, while the house, 
which was quaint and interesting, was also curiously well suited to my 
work, which is that of an artist. It may have been built about the 
time of George II., as it had the black-and-red brick- work of his reign. 
Standing with its broad front and its Semicircle of stone steps a little 
askew to the road, it had a queer look of shy old-fashioned disrespect 
for the less stately dwellings which faced it and occupied on either 
side a part of what once were its own more ampl^ pleasure-grounds. 
In front stood a high brick wall, and two broad gate-ways, guarded by 
square stone columns half hidden by ivy and crowned with tall, gray, 
much-worn, stone pineapples. Behind the house was a long garden, 
once a part of an orchard, where a few aged and fruitless apple-trees had 
won new values to the artist’s eye by taking on the likeness of gnarled 
antique olive-trees. Within, the rooms were needlessly large, and at 
the back of the mansion was an old ball-room panelled in some dark- 
yellow wood. The roof was vaulted, and the ample wall-space enabled 
me to break out a large south window and to build opposite to it a huge 
open fireplace. Altogether I was well suited when in July I moved in 
and began work on two pictures which were to be my first Academy 
exhibits as an Associate R. A. 

The luxury of space was new to me, and the clear air, comparatively 
free from smoke and dust, made my labor delightful. Few persons 
called on me, and the solitude which all workers crave at times was 
helpful, and made more enjoyable my occasional outings with a friend 
at the sea-side. I had, too, my daily ride up the Finchley Road on to 
Hampstead Heath, my day of undisturbed painting, my walk down 
town, my dinner at the Saville Club, and my stroll homeward across 
the Park with a companionable pipe. It was altogether a delightful 
life. 

I speak of it,, and of my cheerful surroundings, merely because, as 
I reflect on this time, and on the incident with which it is connected, 
the sombreness of my small adventure seems to come out in dark con- 
trast with my other recollections of those days of golden contentment. 

On the morning of September 9, at about ten o’clock, after a lazy 
dawdle over the breakfast-table, I lit a pipe, and wandered out into the 
orchard, to think over my work for the day. 

As I strolled to and fro beneath the meagre leafage of the orchard, 
my servant came to tell me that two ladies were in the drawing-room. 
I went into the house, with the discontent of interrupted idleness, and 
was a little taken aback as I came in upon my visitors. They were 


678 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST. 


both tall women, and were evidently mother and daughter. Both rose 
as I entered, the elder woman saying, I believe I have the pleasure to 
see Mr. Alden.^^ 

I am Mr. Alden. Pray sit down. What can I do for yoii?^^ 

I am Mrs. Dulaney. My daughter. Miss Dulaney. I came to 
ask you to paint a portrait of my daughter. You will, I trust, pardon 
my rather early call : our time is hardly our own, as we leave London 
in three days, to return for the purpose of sitting to you, if that can 
be arranged. My daughter is not quite well, but I hope to bring her 
back from Ilfracombe looking her best.^^ 

‘‘ And when will that be I inquired. 

In ten days, if agreeable to you.^’ 

That will answer. I shall be more free then. You will, of 
course, want to know what my terms are.’^ 

Pardon me, I think we may let the business matter pass. I have 

heard from Mrs. what you expect for a full-length, and if you 

will but do your best for us, there is no reasonable sum I shall not be 
glad to give. Whatever contents you will, I assure you, be acceptable 
to me.^^ 

I scarcely liked to pursue the subject, which was simply in the 
business part of my profession. 

As you please,’^ I said ; but I prefer to give you a memorandum 
of my terms. 

“ That is as you like. I will call in two days and tell you more 
precisely when we can give you a first sitting. 

Then the younger woman spoke : before this she had merely given 
me good-morning in return for my greeting. 

If,’’ she said, you would arrange now about the dress, and how 
I am to sit, would it not save time? I sat to Hunt last year, and it 
took two or three hours to settle preliminaries.” 

But perhaps Mr. Alden is busy now.” 

No, I am not.” In fact, the two women interested me, and there 
were soft inflections and a tender dealing with the vowels in their speech 
which puzzled me. At my suggestion, we went into the studio together. 
I asked the daughter, after some little talk, to stand on the dais. As she 
faced me, I saw that she was a very handsome woman, and that she 
Avas rather too pale. As I moved about, observing her from various 
points of view, I remarked that she trembled slightly and changed 
her position, as if the brief continuous effort tired her. 

I said at last, Pray sit down : you seem to be easily wearied by 
standing. I hardly think you will bear to be a stander, — if there be 
such a word.” 

Oh, but there is, of course,” she replied, smiling, and I shall 
stand better in a week or two. I am a little out of sorts just now. In 
fact, mamma, I would like to get into the air. That is, if you are 
done.” 

I said that I had no more to add. 

After this they went away, with the understanding that Mrs. Du- 
laney would return and definitely arrange for the sittings. 

The week passed, however, without the promised visit, at which I 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST 


679 


was both surprised and disappointed. Full-length commissions were 
rare with me in those days, and full-lengths of very handsome women 
rare at all times. I felt, too, a sense of annoyance that women who 
seemed to me so well-bred should have behaved so unaccountably. 

I had made no note of the day on which Mrs. Dulaney called, and, 
as I have a bad memory for dates, I am not quite sure how long it was 
after her visit when the object of it was suddenly brought before me 
anew. It was not over ten days : of that I am pretty certain. I had 
ridden early to the cottage of a friend out Hampstead way, and, return- 
ing later in the morning, left my horse, as usual, at a stable near by 
and walked to my house. It was after twelve o’clock as I strolled 
through the great gate- way, which was closed only at night. 

As I went in I saw a woman standing at the foot of the steps, with 
one hand on the iron rail. As she turned, I was instantly aware that 
it was Miss Dulaney. She was alone, — which seemed odd to me, — 
and there was something about her which, as I advanced, struck me as 
singular. What it was I did not then perceive, nor can I now be any 
more sure of its nature than I was when we met. Her height was re- 
markable, — that of a full-sized man, I should say. As I recall my 
memory of her, I am sure that a certain decisiveness in her ways was 
what seemed most odd to me. She was dressed in some corn-colored 
stuff, and her bonnet was like it in tint, and small after the fashion, and 
this was well, because her head was of a massive beauty and the features 
of a certain noble largeness. As I came forward, keeping my emptied 
pipe behind me, she turned at my step. Then I saw how remarkable 
was the build of her forehead, and how vast were the masses of brown 
hair which crowned the proud square brows. Her face had never quite 
ceased to haunt my memory since our first interview, yet as I now saw 
her I felt that I had not hitherto appreciated the dignity of her appear- 
ance. As we met I said, I am really very glad to see you again, Miss 
Dulaney. I began to fear I should lose the pleasure of painting you.” 

You shall have the pleasure of painting me,” she returned. “That 
is why I am here.” 

By this time the door was open, and, without a word, she moved by 
me, and, in what I might call a deliberate manner, went, much to my 
surprise, directly into the studio. It was reached through a small room 
and a passage which had in it two doors, one of which I had had covered 
with green baize since her first call. For a day or two after I came to 
the house, this way to the studio used to mislead me. She went through 
it and into the painting-room without a word, although as I followed 
her I twice made some trivial remark, feeling that altogether her con- 
duct was eccentric and unusual. 

“ When may I look to see Mrs. Dulaney ?” I asked at last, as she 
stood facing me by the dais. 

“ My mother will not be here. How long shall you be in painting 
me ?” 

“ How long?” I said. “ I do not quite understand.” 

“That is it. How long in painting me? I am ready.” 

“How long? Well, about three weeks.” 

“ No, you will finish to-day. What hour might it be ?” 


680 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST 


Half-past twelve/^ I said. But really ” 

‘ So late she returned, so late ! We have till dusk, — no more.^^ 

I was getting bewildered. Was the woman insane? What did it 
all mean? 

To talk plain sense,’’ I said, pictures are not painted in a day. 
I must simply decline to make the attempt.” 

All this while she stood by the dais, having quietly removed her 
bonnet and taken off her gloves. Presently she stepped on to the plat- 
form, and looked at me as if waiting to see what I would do. A yellow 
shawl was thrown half off her shoulders, and one hand, holding her 
gloves, rested on the back of an old Venetian chair. The accidentally 
assumed pose was charming. 

I am ready,” she said, and I noticed that in speaking she did not 
drop her eyes on me, but remained serenely gazing up into the white 
south light above us. 

I was more and more puzzled. But, repressing my annoyance, and 
with a feeling that there was in this whole matter something unex- 
plained, I said, very quietly, but yet firmly, What you ask of me is 
an impossible task, and you must pardon me if I say that not even to 
oblige you can I attempt it.” 

We are losing time,” she returned, still looking with motionless, 
patient eyes over my head, 

I think you do not quite understand me,” I replied. I said that 
I could not paint you.” 

I do understand ; but time is going past us like — oh ! like a swift 
river. It will never come back, — never. Do you not see that this is 
a thing which you must do, — that it is a thing sent for you to do ? 
The very minutes are precious, and you are wasting them, — and wasting 
me.” 

As I stood a moment troubled and doubtful, she suddenly stepped 
from the dais and moved to my side. I have seen before changes in 
women, but I was not prepared for what now I saw. 

She laid a hand on my arm, — just a touch to emphasize the change, 
— her figure seemed to bend over me, a great gentleness came on her 
face, and the eyes which turned on mine were, of a sudden, tender wfith 
tears. Help me,” she said. 

I was now in a state part amusement, part simple amazement. It 
had become easier to obey her whim than to resist further. 

Very well,” I said. I must find a canvas.” 

Thank you,” she said, and without other words at once resumed 
her former place on the dais. 

I will do it,” I continued ; but I shall fail. I cannot paint later 
than half-past five, if so late as that. Let me arrange your chair. You 
must sit, so as to give me a three-quarter face, which will make it 
easier. It can be but a sketch, after all.” 

I shall stand,” she said. Go on.” 

There was something in her eyes which made me give up. 

There were several canvases ready stretched in the corner. I chose 
one, forty by fifty inches, — the size for a three-quarter seated figure. 
Turning to carry it to the easel, I saw that she still stood looking 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST 


681 


straight before her, and apparently with no curiosity as to the studio 
or my movements. By this time I had concluded that she certainly 
must be insane ; but this did not lessen, in fact it rather increased, the 
effect she produced upon me, — a mingling of admiration with a vague 
sense of discomfort and uneasiness. Whatever annoyance I had was, 
however, lost for the time, as, having placed my canvas, I picked up 
my charcoal and, falling back a pace, looked at my visitor. When 1 
came to survey her thus critically, I was startled by the physical com- 
pleteness of the creature before me. Certainly she was of unusual 
height, but her whole build was in proportion, and there was a stately 
calm about her motionless figure which I have never seen in any other 
woman. Her face was too pallid for. one so strongly built ; in fact, 
the lips showed tlie only bright color in her face, and they were of an 
unusually definite red. 

As 1 moved a step nearer, I saw that her eyes were of a size to 
match the noble largeness of her other features. Be so good as to 
look straight at me,’^ I said. 

I cannot,^^ she returned. Go on.’^ And her motionless gaze 
remained set in a steady stare up into the white cloud-masses which 
made the light quite perfect for a painter. Then that happened to me 
which happens now and then at rare moments to one who has so mas- 
tered the technique of his work that, unembarrassed by his means, he can 
give himself up to the unrestrained passion of his art. I realized with 
almost emotional intensity the proud still beauty of the woman, and 
with this came to me swiftly an overflowing conviction of my own 
creative competency. I began to draw, feeling my face flush, while 
with strange ease I found my charcoal following the curves of neck 
and bust and steady shoulders. Then I took my palette and began to 
paint. I did not wish to speak, and I did not desire that she should. 
At times I felt as if I were transferring something of the woman her- 
self to my canvas ; and I have had this feeling before, but not intensely 
as now I felt it. The lines of her head grew on the canvas, and it 
began to fascinate me as she herself had done. Continuing to paint in 
this mood of utter absorption, I lost all sense of the passage of time. 
A clock above the fireplace began to chime, and then struck four. The 
noise broke in on my work with a sense for me of physical shock, yet 
three must have struck unheard. I had been at work since a little after 
twelve and a half o’clock. My hand fell for a moment from exhaustion, 
as I suddenly became aware of the lapse of time, and I was abruptly 
conscious of the strange fury with which I had been using the golden 
minutes. I next reflected with amazement that this woman had been 
standing motionless for more than three hours, — a thing almost unheard 
of, — impossible even for the oldest models. I felt ashamed at my selfish 
indifference, and my own immense sense of fatigue emphasized my self- 
reproof. 

I said to her at once, I have been wrong to let you stand so long. 
Let me beg of you to rest. One gets so self-absorbed.” 

^‘Jt is I,” she replied, who have overtaxed you. I should not 
have made you work so hard ; but my hours were — I may say are — 
limited. I shall not weary, and when you are rested we can go on.” 


682 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST 


Thank you/^ I returned, and went by her, towards the fire, which 
was still burning. She did not move, nor did her eyes seek mine as 
she spoke. 

If you will excuse me, I will walk down the garden a few mo- 
ments and smoke my pipe. Then I can go on. But I do wish you 
would sit down. If I am exhausted, what must you be 
Thank you, I prefer to stand.^^ 

Without more words, I hastily lit my pipe and passed out through 
the glass door, which I closed behind me, still conscious of dreadful 
fatigue, which seemed to increase. I sat down on a bench, and smoked 
with great sense of the calming influence of my pipe. I may have been 
thus seated during five minutes, when I was aware of something about 
me like a perfume. It struck me at once, as I was smoking, that it 
was strange I should be able to recognize any other odor. What I 
smelt was a faint aroma, which puzzled me with a belief that it was 
not unfamiliar. I have no musical ear, but my senses of taste and 
smell and color are faultless. I stopped smoking, and turned to look 
about me for the source of this odor, when I saw standing a few feet 
from me the young woman I had left in my studio. I instantly rose, 
but before I could speak she said, distinctly, but very gently, — 

Are you rested ? We have but little time.’^ 

Certainly,’^ I replied, in amazement, for I had not heard her 
open the glass door nor shut it, and yet it was shut, and I was not 
twenty feet from it: ‘^I will come at once.^^ And, standing, I 
glanced down at my pipe as I shook the ashes out of it. Look- 
ing up again, I saw that I was alone. There was the orchard, the 
house, I myself, and no one else. I was puzzled, and then simply 
decided that I had made on my mind’s eye a too decisive picture of 
the woman whose strange beauty and singular urgency had driven me 
through these hours of passionate eager labor. I turned musingly to 
go into the house, and was again conscious of the odor I have men- 
tioned. It came and went, a subtile penetrative scent, unreasonably 
exciting my curiosity. Entering the room, I had a curious shock to 
see this pallid woman standing as motionless as when I had left her. 
I concluded, of course, that she had used my absence to rest and had 
just reassumed her pose. 

How well you stand !” I said. It is wonderful.” 

I am not tired. Please to make haste.” 

Then we shall go on. You are sure you are not tired ?” 

No. Go on.” 

The short London day was coming to its close, and we were enter- 
ing that hour, delicious to the artist, when the shadows broaden with 
ever-softening margins, — the hour when Rembrandt first learned to 
paint, and the fine charm of which he never lost. Conscious of the 
flitting day’s advance, I painted with that swift unerring hand which 
once in a life tricks one with the belief that he is above his fellows in 
capacity. As I retreated anew and looked from the almost moveless 
figure to the face and form on my canvas, I knew what a splendid 
thing I had done in these hours of triumphant toil. Could she stand it 
longer? could I but have another half-hour? In my delight at what I 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST. 


683 


had achieved, I lost my humanity in the utter selfishness of fortunate 
achievement. She must stay till the last moment. I said no word, 
but eagerly painted. I had not once paused to measure or plumb my 
figure. In these hours of eager work I had not had a moment of 
hesitative effort. The light was now fading, but I feared to speak, 
lest I should thus suggest her departure. From the corners little 
shadows crawled out on to the floor and deepened. About her, too, 
mysterious flakes of darkness fell and grew broader with softened 
edges among the folds of her dress and on the falling ruffles about her 
neck, while the white south light shone large in her eyes, and these 
stayed, as before, unnaturally motionless. 

Clearly, I could not go on longer. Already too much was beauti- 
fully indistinct in the growing shadows ; but I was eager to finish the 
hand, which, with the long gloves in among its fingers, rested lightly 
on the chair-back. I moved quite close to her to observe it. As I 
looked, I noticed that it became more difficult to see. Now I per- 
ceived it well, and then I could see only the chair which it touched. 

I fear,’^ I said, speaking for the first time in an hour, that I have 
overtaxed you, as I have myself. I find my vision is not clear.^^ 
And of this I was presently more sure, because now her face had 
vanished, and against the shadowy background only two vast eyes 
glowed moveless and unwinking. 

I recoiled a step or two, troubled at my own state of mind. 

You are right, she said ; but I will try to do better.’^ As she 
spoke, I again saw her whole face, and even her figure, with an ex- 
cessive distinctness, while also I became once more conscious of the 
odor I have referred to. I might say of this scent that it was cool 
and damp, and yet that it was a little like that of the clove-pink. 
Something in this strange adventure began to disturb me, I paused 
a moment, still looking at the stately figure which was now lost in 
the darkening shade about her, now vividly distinct to the least fold 
of the dress. The fury of desire to paint fell from me, and more 
and more I realized my own sense of immeasurable fatigue. 

You are a strange person to paint,^^ I said. 

Not so strange as I soon shall be. You must be very tired.’’ 

And you.” 

I am not tired. Is it done ? Do not lose a moment, I entreat 
you. How thankful he will be !” 

I was exhausted, more by the intensity of the effort than by its 
duration, but I answered, — 

I can see a little longer ; but it is difficult.” 

Wait,” she replied : I can do still better. How is that ?” 

In fact, she was again more distinct, and her white face, and the 
yellow tints of her dress, which had but now been as one with the 
absorbing shadows, stood out clear as gold in sunshine against the 
deepening gloom. Before this, I had been puzzled, annoyed, or made 
thoughtful by the events of this singular sitting, but now I felt, for 
the first time, a sense of something like terror. The room was clad 
thick with shadows, which had grown as the light faded. Behind me 
was the vast square of white clouds, fast graying as the evening fell. 


684 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST. 


Before me was this still figure in statue-like steadiness. As I looked, 
it seemed to me to grow dim, and then, if 1 glanced at my canvas, and 
again turned towards my model, it was for a time distinct, but only to 
grow indistinct as I gazed at it anew. Plainly enough, my own visual 
power was exhausted by the immense strain I had put upon it. To 
test this (for the fact began to perplex me), I worked deliberately a few 
moments on her dress without looking at her face. Then I fell back a 
step or two, as we artists are apt to do, to see my work at the distance 
at which it would be seen by others. As I looked at her once more, I 
was again faintly conscious of the odor so often mentioned, but my 
sitter was gone, her place vacant. I stared about me into the gathering 
gloom, and moved towards the dais, supposing in my bewilderment 
that she had stepped down and must be hidden by my canvas. There 
was no one in sight. Her gloves were still lying over the chair-back, 
just where a moment since her hand had rested, and her bonnet was 
gone. I had now a distinct sense of fear, or at least of awe. I put 
out my hand to take the gloves. As I did this, I came into contact 
with her hand, — with something, at all events, cold and to the touch 
flesh, which detained the glove in place. I drew back, feeling little 
chills crawling over me, becoming sure at last that I was in the presence 
of one of those strange facts which seem to be so rarely allowed to our 
experience. I looked up. Surely I saw for a moment the woman’s 
face. Then it was gone. In the courage of agitation, I caught at 
the gloves. They were no longer held. For a few seconds I stood in 
the half-darkness with them in my hand, a plain material record of 
their owner. I laid them down on the easel’s ledge. Suddenly I saw 
them move as if they had been quietly picked up by a hand I could 
not see. Then I lost sight of them : they were gone. Need I say that 
I was profoundly disturbed ? I confess to having felt at this time the 
extremity of awe, but by which as yet all curiosity was not expelled. 
I walked again to the dais, and, putting out my hand, moved it across 
wdiere the figure had been, and then, with a cry of wonder and fear, 
recoiled. My hand met with some resistance, or rather hardly with 
that : it was like passing the fingers through a quantity of floss-silk 
hanging loose. The next moment I felt something which resembled 
cobwebs cross my face. The sense of mystery was harder to bear than 
any testing of the cause, and, with this urgency acting upon me, I 
moved quickly forward and passed a hand to and fro where she had 
stood. There was no resistance to my touch. I was alone. At this 
moment the clock struck half-past five. It was cloudy, and darker 
than common at that hour. I walked over to the wall, struck a match, 
and lit the four large gas-burners on either side of the chimney-place. 
They fairly illuminated the whole room. At least I could now see 
into every corner. At first the light, by showing that I was alone, 
seemed to deepen my sense of awe. I sat down by the fading fire, 
which at this season was nearly always nee<led, and then, conscious of 
having my back to the room and its great spaces, arose, and stood facing 
the large southern window. I wanted to cross the studio and see what 
I had painted. I could not. I think I was afraid to do so. My 
hesitation arose partly from an inexplicable alarm and partly from a 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST. 


685 


dread of finding no picture and thus of becoming conscious that my 
brain was in some way disordered. At last I felt a wild desire to get 
out of the place. It was easy enough, but the journey across the floor 
had become impossible. This time I knew that I was afraid. Sud- 
denly my eye fell on the bell-pull near me, to the left of the fireplace. 
I pulled it. A moment passed, and the door opened. It was Susan, 
the maid, — a middle-aged woman. I simply looked at her with a sense 
of relief. 

Did you please to ring, sir 

Yes, I rang. I — I want breakfast at eight, to-morrow/^ 

^^Yes, sir.^^ 

And, Susan, did you see a lady go out a little while ago 

No, sir ; no lady did. I was in the hall, sir, a-cleaning.” 

And, please, Susan, just pull down the curtain of the big window ; 
it moves rather hard.^^ 

By this time I was like a scared child unwilling to confess his fears. 
I wanted Susan to pass between my easel and the window. She was 
quite at home in studios, and might chance to speak of the picture. 
She pulled down the curtain. 

And, Susan,” I said, ^^just turn that easel, so as to get a little 
light on it.” I was afraid to say, move the picture now on it.” 
There might be no picture on it ! 

Susan, accustomed to such orders, turned the easel part- way round. 
It was now sideways to me. She made no remark, except to say, — 

Is that all, sir ?” 

I could say no more. I was faint and confused. Yes. Don^t 
forget I am to breakfast earlier than usual.” 

No, sir. And might I raise the windows when you are gone 
out ? There is a queer smell, like it might be of damp things, or dead 
flowers.” 

A smell, Susan ?” I said. And like what ? What sort of a 
smell ?” 

Like — I don’t know what it’s like. It is very strong about the 
easel, sir. I thought you might have left some dead flowers about ; but 
it isn’t quite that, neither.” 

Very well. It is of no moment. You need not go, if you have 
anything to do here. I am going out at once.” 

In fact, I did not want again to be left alone in the studio. I was 
not afraid of what I might see or hear, but I dreaded the uncertainty 
I felt as to what might be the effect of further experiences upon my 
mind. I wished to be out among other men in the air, where I could 
reflect at leisure on what I had seen. I was, in fact, so much disturbed 
that I could not go over and look to see if I had been in the grasp 
of an hallucination and had dreamed myself into a belief that I had 
painted a picture. I was physically shaken, — that was clear ; for, as 
I turned to go, I felt a little dizzy, and the room and everything in it 
seemed to tilt to the right for a moment. This annoyance added to my 
dread of learning that I had been self-deceived, for it seemed to show 
me that I was actually in some physical way unwell. 

I went up-stairs and took a good cold bath, dressed for dinner, and 

Yol. XLI. — 44 


686 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST 


walked away down the Finchley Road, feeling better and more tran- 
quil. I resolved that I would not allow myself to think of the pic- 
ture until next day, when in daylight I could face the whole question 
and end*my doubts. 

I was rather late for the general table of the Saville, and therefore 
turned into Piccadilly and went on to the Athenseura, where I dined 
alone. I read awhile in the library, and then descended into the some- 
what dismal apartment below-stairs which is devoted to those who 
smoke. At the foot of the staircase is a fire, kept up even in summer, 
as the place is apt to be damp and chilly. I stopped here a moment 
to warm myself, after our British fashion, with my back to the fire. 
In the recess beyond me was a weighing-scale, for use by such gentle- 
men as are anxious concerning the cumulative results of too many 
good dinners. Suddenly I began to wonder if such a being as I had 
seen, or believed I had seen, had weight. If I were correct in my ob- 
servations and my visitor were not a creation of my own brain, pro- 
jected into visual existence, what I had seen certainly appeared to have 
varied in density, because, while at one moment it was distinct enough, 
a little later I had felt a part of it as offering a slight resistance to the 
passage of my hand. On entering the smoking-room on my left, I was 
emotionally disturbed for a moment, owing to my becoming faintly 
conscious of the presence of the aromatic odor which I had perceived 
first in the orchard. I at once reasoned that the recalling to mind 
of the form I had seen had brought up anew the memory of the 
perfume already linked in association with its former presence, but 
I began to feel some alarm lest these vivid impressions should have 
become too completely a part of my organization. In a word, I did 
not like it. 

It was rather late, and London so empty that few persons were in 
the smoking-room. It chanced that I knew none of them ; and I sat 
alone in a corner, smoking, and reflecting on the circumstances which 
had so strangely occupied the afternoon. It was after eleven, and I 
was about to go, when I observed a gentleman near me and at the 
same time saw that we were alone in the room. I noticed him chiefly 
because he had two or three times glanced at me, as if I too were to 
him a matter of interest or curiosity. 

At the more formal clubs it is so rare for men to address any one 
whom they do not know that I was a little surprised when he said, at 
last, — 

Pleasant weather for London.’^ 

Yes,^’ I returned, — charming,’^ and, seeing clearly that he was 
not English, I added, ^^and, for a stranger, London just now, with its 
faint mistiness and its freedom from smoke, is seen to its best advan- 
tage.’^ 

Smoke without fog, if it be well -diluted, is also pretty,” he said. 

It gives curious umber tints to the sunlight, and to the shadows too. 
We see it now and then in America after our forest-fires. If there 
is a good deal of it in the upper atmosphere, things get a queer ghostly 
look, — an odd sense of the unreal, due, I suppose, to its making every- 
thing look unfamiliar.” 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST gg? 

I was sensitive enough to consider it strange that he should be 
thinking of things ghostly, just as I was. 

We use the word ^ ghostly^ rather lightly, don^t you think 

Well, perhaps so.’^ 

For my part, the mere word itself has a singular look. If you 
will write the word Ghost alone on a sheet of paper, and then look 
at it, you will see or feel what I mean. All those words have a 
queer look. I mean, all those which begin with gh. There are but 
two or three, — Ghost, and Ghastly, and Ghoul, but that is Persian.^’ 

What an odd idea he said. I would like to see a ghost. 
Suppose, now, one could see one here at this moment. Or, pardon 
me, perhaps you are one, or I am one. How should either of us 
know ? We may have met many.^^ 

Plave you ever known a man who had seen one I asked. 

No. Have you 

Yes.’^ 

Indeed ! Pray tell me about it.^’ 

To this day I cannot say why I answered as I did. I am naturally 
reticent, and I was ashamed of my weakness about the picture and all 
that belonged to it ; yet I said, — 

I have seen one.^^ 

You r he said. Really ! Pardon me, I don^t mean to doubt 
it, but 

Yes, to-day, — a few hours ago.’^ 

My companion of the hour was plainly a well-bred man, for not 
a trace of mirth appeared on his face. To-day,’^ he said. That is 
rather startling, but I can believe it. It has left a strong impression on 
you. You will excuse me if I say that you still look as if you had 
received some grave shock. Does it occur to you that you may not 
be well ? — that 

I have thought of that. What I saw, however, or believed I 
saw, has certainly disturbed me. I could have made sure. I — that is, 
there still exists a test which will tell me if I am self-deceived or have 
seen an unreal being.^^ 

That is interesting. But, by the way, this is rather singular talk 
for two entire strangers. I am George Weldon, a captain in the 
United States Army. I have been in London but a few hours.’^ 

I rose at once and shook hands with him, saying, in turn, I am 
John Alden, an artist. I cannot say why I have blurted this out to 
you, a stranger, so personal a matter, but the talk led up to it quite 
naturally. You will excuse me, I trust. I have not recovered what 
I might call my mental equilibrium.^^ 

I can’t feel sorry that you have been moved to speak ; but, now 
that you have done so, let me ask what test you allilded to, and why 
you did not apply it?” 

I was — well, I was afraid.” 

I see. You dreaded lest you might find that it was your own 
brain which was disordered.” 

Yes, you have put your finger on the truth.” 

Perhaps you would rather we said no more of it ?” 


688 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST. 


No, I shall find the telling of what happened a relief, and to- 
morrow I shall know. There are things a man is willing to tell a 
stranger rather than a friend, because the unfamiliarity saves him from 
ridicule.^^ 

You would be safe in any case,^’ he returned, gravely. 

Thank you.’^ 

The man before me was a tall, handsome person, wearing a long, 
silky moustache, which fell away from the central line of the lip and 
left nearly in full view a mouth of remarkably gentle beauty, while all 
his other features were strong and manly and his complexion deeply 
tanned. I made up my mind that I would tell him. 

To-day,^^ I said, a woman of singular beauty came alone to my 
house and insisted on my painting her portrait. She gave me from 
twelve o’clock until dusk, insisting that she had no more time. I re- 
fused, and she merely took her place and bade me go on. Of course 
this was absurd. She was alone, said nothing of my charges, spoke 
few words. I am young enough to have some sense of romance, and I 
got caught at last with the notion of painting her. I knew well enough 
that it could be but a sketch at best, and ” 

‘^Let me interrupt you. You said she was alone. Was she a 
lady?” 

Surely yes, if ever there was one.” 

And handsome ?” 

Yes, unusually handsome, — tall, a certain stately largeness of feat- 
ure, perfectly straight as to figure, but with that slight forward car- 
riage of the neck and head which is so uncommon and so gracious.” 

^^Her eyes?” 

Larger than usual. And, one thing that is rare, she wore her hair 
coiled on the back of her head in antique fashion.” 

The description is good, and brings to my mind a woman I know, 
and know very well. Certainly she would not have strayed alone into 
a painter’s studio. But I stopped your story. Where is your ghost ?” 

She is.” 

Oh, not really ? I mean, what grounds have you ?” 

She disappeared while I was painting her, — faded away. I went 
and touched the place where she stood, and felt resistance to my hand 
where no one was visible ; then in a moment or two after there was no 
resistance. She could no more have walked away unseen than you.” 

It is a strange story. But where is your test ?” 

Well, there is but one exit through the hall, and the maid at work 
in the hall saw no one pass.” 

That might be.” 

^^But take it with my own observation, and the fact that this 
woman, my sitter, was at times difficult to see, and then distinct.” 

And your test?” 

Oh, I assume that I saw and painted a supernatural being. I am 
satisfied with the evidence of my senses. Now, if there is no picture, 
I have been ill and had some strange waking dream, — that is, I have 
been insane for an afternoon.” 

But you have the picture ?” 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST. 


689 


Of course, if I painted it , — if it is there/^ 

Oh, I see ! You were afraid to make sure/^ 

Yes, I left my easel after the woman vanished. I have been afraid 
to go to the studio again and decide the thing. If there is no picture, 
there was no woman. If there is a portrait, I painted a phantom. That 
is all of it.^^ 

But why did you not ask some one of your family to look at it 

I am alone, — a bachelor. I 

Would you mind my seeing this picture? You ought not to sleep 
in doubt as to a thing of so much moment, and, to tell you the truth, 
the matter interests me immensely. Were I as frank as your country- 
men are apt to be, I should say that either you are a subject for a doc- 
tor, or that you have seen something which is outside of our present 
human experience.^^ 

I will go with you at once,” I said, if you will consider the 
whole affair as confidential. I have a feeling about it which makes me 
dread ridicule.” 

You are safe with me. Let us go. And, by the way,” he added, 
would you mind telling me the woman’s name ?” 

I hesitated, hardly knowing why. 

I will do so after you have seen it.” 

Very well. Perhaps I have asked what I should not have done. 
And where is your studio ?” 

I named the place, saying that it could be reached by hansom in 
twenty-five minutes. 

Let us walk at least part of the way,” he replied. I should 
like to discuss this a little further. One can’t talk in a hansom.” 

We pulled up at the top of Baker Street, and walked out Welling- 
ton Road to the Finchley Road, my companion asking me, as we went, 
a number of very shrewd questions. At last he was silent, apparently 
lost in the reflections aroused by my replies. 

Then in turn I also put one or two queries, and finally inquired if 
he believed in the existence on earth of immaterial beings. 

But,” he said, for me there is no such thing as material or im- 
material. We want a word which will include both. If you say that 
the immaterial shall be imponderable, that will not suffice, for the ether 
which we believe on good evidence to be the intermolecular atmosphere 
and look upon as material is imponderable by our scales, and yet may 
have relative weight. I can conceive of almost infinite gradations be- 
tween the ponderable and that which we call imponderable only because 
we cannot yet weigh it.” 

That is but a small part of the difficulty, for, after all, one can 
only see your ether in the mind’s eye.” 

Yes, it would be a mere intellectually apprehended ghost that was 
built up of the ether. It could not become manifest to the senses.” 

Then there is no test which is satisfactory : I mean, none which a 
single man can apply ?” 

None, I fear.” 

Of course if several people saw and separately described a sup- 
posed phantom, that would suffice.” 


690 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST. 


Not for those who believe, as some do, that an intense impression 
on one man’s mind is in some way competent to become present to that 
of another near him. Now, if the first man’s vision was subjective, so 
would the other’s be.” 

I find that as hard to believe as I do a ghost.” 

Well, let us talk of other things, and have our heads clear to ob- 
serve what you have to show.” 

I said that the idea was a good one ; and accordingly we fell into a 
very interesting chat about hunting, and the great West of America. 
I found my companion unusually agreeable, and recognized the value 
of his considerate counsel to keep oif the subject with which our ac- 
quaintance had begun. This was still more clear to me as we entered 
my house, for 1 felt more calm and self-assured than I had done since I 
last left it. 

I paused at the door of the studio, and then we entered. The vast 
room was in total darkness. As I moved across it, the aromatic odor 
was still at times perceptible, but was very faint. Of it I had said 
nothing, in the hope that if it still existed my companion might notice 
it unprompted by me. 

‘‘ I will get a candle,” I said, and found my way to the fireplace, 
where was a candelabrum. Striking a match, I lit the three candles it 
held. Captain Weldon picked it up, and, followed by me, walked to 
the easel, which we reached together, as he held up the lights before it. 

There it was, in truth, — the tall, noble figure, the proud, pale feat- 
ures, the eyes that looked over and beyond you into distance. A splen- 
did portrait. I shall never do its like again. As I took it all in, I 
cried, It was true ! I was sure of it !” But at the instant my com- 
panion’s disengaged hand fell with a fierce clutch on my wrist, and, 
turning, I saw that his face was as the face of death, his head thrown 
back, his eyes staring, his jaw dropped. 

Good gracious !” I said, what is it ? Are you ill ?” 

He made no answer, but staggered back, let fall the candelabrum, 
which crashed on the floor as the candles went out, released my hand, 
broke away from me with a hoarse cry, and swiftly found his way to 
the door. I followed, only in time to overtake him at the hall-entrance ; 
but, in reply to my rapid queries, he answered, hastily, I cannot say. 
Do not stop me. I must go,” and altogether seemed so frantic that, 
after letting him out, I thought it well to follow him on to the side- 
walk. He seemed for a moment quite dazed, but suddenly, turning, 
ran like a madman towards the Finchley Road, turned the corner, and 
was lost to view. As I stood amazed, I could hear for a while that 
he was still running. It was vain to follow a man who was in such 
haste that he had fled without his hat. 

Altogether, the day’s events had been sufficiently surprising to a 
quiet artist like myself. When next morning I went into the studio, I 
was more and more astonished at my work the more critically I studied 
it. It seemed to have on it the labor of several long sittings; and 
this I could understand, remembering the passionate intensity with 
which I had painted ; but there was also about it something unusual, 
which I could not define. As I stood before it, the door opened, and 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST. 


691 


Wilton, the Academician, came in. I went forward to welcome him, 
and then said, Come and see this picture.^^ The old fellow put on 
his glasses. 

Halloo he said. How — what — who did that?^^ 

I painted it. What^s the matter 

Nonsense ! Who did paint it?^’ 

It was not flattering. 

What do you think of it?’^ 

Think ? The ghost of Kembrandt may have painted it. How refined 
it is! and what a solemn face, like Marie Antoinette going to execution I 
And the shadows, — the shadows ! By George, who did do that?^^ 

I was resolved not to tell my story to any one else ; but to make Wil- 
ton believe that I had been the painter of the portrait seemed impos- 
sible. I suppose I showed at last some annoyance, for he said, Well, 
we had best look to our laurels, and advised me to exhibit my picture, 
and then talked of other matters. At last he told me he would return 
in three days: and, by the way,’^ he said, ‘‘just keep that woman 

here awhile. I want to show it to M 

Of course I agreed, and here for a while the matter rested. At the 
AthensBum I got with some difficulty Captain Weldon^s address, but 
found that he had left London. I was annoyed at this, because if I 
had not delayed two days I should have found him. He had given an 
address (a banker’s), but there they only knew that he had not left any 
orders, and thus his letters were held for him until he should give 
further directions. 

A week later I was in my studio, when Captain Weldon’s card was 
brought up to me. In a moment, to my pleasure, he followed it in 
person. He was dressed in deep mourning, and looked pale and ill. 
After the ordinary greetings, he said, “ I am in great haste, but have 
called to explain to you my conduct of last week. The woman you 
painted was dying of a low fever the day you painted her. She died 
at or about six o’clock that afternoon. I was engaged to her. I cannot 
now discuss with you, as I may at some future time, this strange affair. 
I am in Europe on a military mission, and have been detained in Eng- 
land by having to accompany her mother and brother to Liverpool, 
where they have taken her body on the way home. To-night I leave 
for Berlin. I should say that my friends came to England two weeks 
before I did, and I presumed had gone to Paris, as they had meant to 
do. I reached London late in the day you saw me at the Club, too 
late to get my letters, and hence did not hear of Miss Dulaney’s illness. 
This is all I can tell you, except that her mother and I had greatly 
desired her to sit for her portrait. One word more : you will kindly 
name your price for that picture. I must have it.” 

I said at once, “ I have no price, and can accept none. Give me 
your address, and I will send it to you.” 

“I understand,” he said. “You could not sell that picture. I 
take you frankly at your word.” He thanked me, evidently with so 
full a heart that it was impossible to pity him too deeply. A few words 
settled the matter, and he left me with a promise to call on his way home. 
This he proved unable to do, as he was hastily recalled by the outbreak 


692 


THE PORTRAIT AND THE GHOST. 


of the civil war in America. As to the picture, it remained to my artist 
friends a mystery, and it was clear enough that it was by all of them 
regarded with a certain amount of doubt which at last made both me 
and them a little shy of the subject. 

I heard from Captain Weldon now and then for two or three years, 
and after that not at all for a long while. At last came a letter, dated 
at Fort Yuma in Arizona, which recorded a fact so curious that I 
ask no man to believe it, and indeed I myself have it only on hearsay. 
I simply give a part of the letter in which it is spoken of. Colonel 
Weldon (for he had risen to this rank during the war) apologized for 
his long silence, and then went on to say, — 

I have hesitated a good while as to whether I should tell you the 
following fact. The war left destitute the mother and sister of the 
woman I was once engaged to. I was powerless to help them, as I 
have little beyond my pay. After some time I saw but one way to aid 
them, and the matter ended by my becoming engaged to Miss Dulaney. 
We were married a month ago. On my return hither, we rode into 
the fort quite late in the evening, very tired. After breakfast next day, 
Mrs. Weldon asked to see her sister’s picture. I took her into a little 
study, where it hung over the mantel, as I had carried it with me in 
all my wanderings. As we entered the room, my wife said, ‘ What a 
strange odor ! It makes me feel faint.’ I thought I smelt it, but 
was not sure. I looked around for a cause, and then, to my amaze- 
ment, perceived that the picture was gone. I mean that the canvas was 
there, and a good deal of color in splotches, but no trace of a portrait. 
I jumped on a chair and touched it, but it was not wet with paint or 
otherwise injured. My wife — and this is strangest of all — declares, 
nay, insists, that when we entered the face was dimly visible. This 
was probably an hallucination ; but who can say ? I am prepared to 
believe anything. My wife has been led to think that her sister’s por- 
trait was taken from a photograph, and is much distressed at its loss. 
She constantly recurs to the odor which we both perceived. I have, 
of course, discouraged all further talk on the subject, and profess to 
consider the fading of the picture as a disfigurement due to malicious 
mischief. That this is not my real opinion, you, at least, will readily 
understand. 

My wife is a rather nervous woman, much broken by the calami- 
ties of war in the South, and knew nothing of the circumstances under 
which the portrait was painted. I was, therefore, careful not to say 
that I had once before smelt the singular perfume just alluded to. 
I do not think I mentioned it to you, but I did recall it as like an odor 
which was distinctly perceptible in your studio. You know, of course, 
how easily an odor recalls a scene in which it has been once encountered.” 

This letter goes on to speak further of this curious affair ; but it is 
needless to quote more of it. I have described events as they occurred, 
and have, of course, been at some pains to misstate the names of those 
involved. 


NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S WIFE. 


693 


NEBUCHADNEZZAR 8 WIFE. 

O VER Babylon’s grandeurs one grayness of ominous mist had out- 
rolled ; ^ 

To their altars the priesthood had hurried, with visages white to be- 
hold ; 

All the mirth of the shawms and the sackbuts by night or by day did 
not ring, 

And the people were huddling in terror, for the curse had come down 
on the King. 

They were wailing for Nebuchadnezzar, and none who had heard them 
could tell 

If to Asshur in anguish more noisy they prayed than to Nebo or Bel ; 
For the great sacred river was glooming, as though some fell deed had 
been done 

Between Supulat, god of Euphrates, and Shamas, god of the sun. 

And in street, garden, square, or in temples, with their ziggurats’ tower- 
ing pride, « 

There was lamentation more dreary than if Ishtar the deathless had 
died. 

They had heard how the Jewish Jehovah his burden of penance could 
bring, 

But they sought the old gods of their people, for the curse had come 
down on their King. 

Through the city one deep desolation had banished by spells of af- 
fright 

The turmoil of traffic at noonday or the toss of the torches at night ; 
Over Nebuchadnezzar’s vast army one sorrowing stupor would drowse. 
Alike on the helmeted spearmen and the archers with filleted brows. 

In the market-place gathered no buyers where the fruit-sellers’ booths 
overran 

With grapes from Kasvin and with quinces from the orchards of Is- 
pahan. 

All day on their slabs in the sunshine the eels from Aleppo would 
bake 

Unbought near the barbel from Tigris and the blackfish from Antioch 
Lake. 

No Assyrian maiden looked longing at the riches that merchants un- 
fold; 

At the agates and sards from Choaspes in their filigreed Indian gold ; 
At the onyxes from Susiana, at the Bactrian jewel or jar ; 

At the pearl-crusted broideries from Persia, or the muslins from Malabar. 


694 


NEBUCHADNEZZAR^S WIFE. 


With safety the ibex would wander on slopes where the tamarisk dwells; 

With safety at pools in the meadows would pause the pale-spotted 
gazelles ; 

Where the eyes of the lions flamed yellow, their sleek bodies trembling 
to spring, 

No more betwixt reeds of the rivers the arrows from chariots would sing. 

No more to far countries Caucasian the venturing huntsmen would ride 

Where the aurochs in aisles of the forest black-maned and majestic 
abide ; 

No more on big beasts lying slaughtered, when dumb was the chase 
with its din. 

Would they pour the red sacred libations in homage to Nergal or Nin. 

But I, in my bonds of bereavement, through reveries no cheer could 
console, 

I would pace my long tapestried chambers, on my couches of ivory 
would loll ; 

And of throngs that lamented their monarch, unto none came affliction 
more keen 

Than to me, his moon-browed Amyitis, his beloved Babylonian queen. 

He had wooed me with ardors of passion ; be had won me to share his 
great throne ; 

For I was imperial, a princess, with lineage as proud as his own. 

In the halls of my fathers he found me, at the first flush of girlhood^s 
young dream. 

Where the mountains of Media are mighty and the domes of Ecb^tana 
beam. 

He had wed me and girt me with worship ; he had built me, to ban my 
least cares, 

Hanging gardens where fountains of porphyry played splendid from 
flowery parterres ; 

He had clad me in tissues like cobwebs, where diamonds like dew shed 
their sheens. 

And the robes of the slave-girls that fanned me were fit for the ransoms 
of queens. 

Ah, many an evening together, when sunset its breezes would waft, 

In the dusk of my silken pavilions the wines of Armenia we quaffed. 

Flung below me, his dark brawny beauty from the tiger-skins gleamed 
to my gaze. 

And like wrath in the green eyes of dragons his armlets of emerald 
would blaze. 

But Twas love, only love, that illumined his looks when they dwelt 
upon mine. 

As I called him my conqueror, my hero, my warrior, my chieftain 
divine. 


NEB UCHADNEZZAR ’S WIFE. 695 

And we lifted our rose-wreathen goblets, we fed upon love’s richest 
fruits, ♦ 

While from clustered acacias came floating the music of Palmyrene 
lutes ! 

At a word he would gladly have given me the choicest of war-plunders 
rare. 

Between walls of the seven-colored temples piled gorgeous in layer 
upon layer ; 

Yea, his mandate had molten to please me — so dear was my whim’s 
lightest nod — 

The two holy serpents of silver that coiled below Beltis, their god ! 

But the crafty Judaeans he had vanquished wrought slow on the moods 
of his mind, 

Till I hated the wizardries guileful that round him like skeins they 
entwined ; 

For at last he would come to me sombre where jovial erewhile he had 
come. 

And the beam in his dark eye was clouded, the laugh on his bearded 
lips dumb. 

Then he spoke of a dream that had irked him, filled full of inscrutable 
threat, 

But I bade him disdain and forget it, as kings may disdain and forget ; 

Yet alike my entreaties or counsels were emptier than air to his ears. 

And he passed from my portals desponding, though I strove to detain 
him with tears. 

Through the morrows that brought him not near me, I languished with 
longing supreme. 

And I learned how an Israelite prophet had risen to interpret his 
dream ; 

How monitions that teemed with disaster were spoke, and had stricken 
him as true. 

By the man that was now Belteshazzar, but once had been Daniel, the 
Jew. 

And no more to my bowers would he wander, and ever my torment was 
worse. 

Till at last came the message of misery, the tidings that told of his 
curse. 

And hearkening I trembled for horror when they whispered with gasps 
of their King 

That he prowled the great park of his palace, a prone graminirorous 
thing ! . , . 

Then the frenzy of awe seized our city, as through it this grim story 
shot. 

And in tumult, alarm, consternation, Amyitis, the Queen, was forgot. 


096 NEB UCHADNEZZAR WIFE. 

But I spake to my tiremaids with calmness ; I lulled their fierce fears 
into rest, 

Though my pulses like snared birds were fluttering, the heart was on 
fire in my breast. 

So erelong to the chief of the eunuchs I bade that a message be sent : 

Untarrying he came where I waited, and low in obeisance he bent. 

And I said to him, Aspenaz, hearken, as thou hast been faithful and 
true, 

For strange is the task that in secret thy Queen shall command thee to 
do.^^ 

Then I told my desire, and he started, and prostrate he fell in dismay. 

And O Queen,^^ he responded, thy servant but lives thy behests to 
obey. 

Still, pause . . for too rashly thou temptest the gods in omnipotence 
dread 

But I towered o’er him, quivering with anger, and answered him. 
Slave, I have said !” . . . 

How loitered those leaden-shod moments till midnight made good her 
mute reign ! — 

Till I passed the unchallenging swordsmen that guard my seraglio’s 
domain. — 

Till I reached the great hall of the palace, with lines of dim lamps by 
the score 

Clinging chained to its big cedarn rafters and starring its long marble 
floor. 

And here, through the vague light to meet me, came Aspenaz, potent 
with aid ; 

Though rebellious at first from sheer pity, at last he had humbly 
obeyed ;• 

And together in silence we glided past walls painted fair, near and far. 

With the deeds of divine Hasiadra and of bull-slaying Idzubar. 

But by narrower corridors wending, we gained the immense palace-park. 

And I felt the fresh breeze on my forehead rush fleet from the distances 
dark. 

Just beyond were the dense trees, and o’er them such night as no 
meanest cloud mars. 

For all of Chaldea to be wise by, spread legions of sibylline stars. 

Then, terrace by terrace descending, we stood where the grass dripped 
with dew. . . 

^^Now,” I whispered to Aspenaz, ^Ueave me.” . . . He shuddered, 
and softly withdrew. . . 

Like a vanishing phantom I saw him retire and be lost up the slope . . . 
He had left me alone with my longing, my pain, my despair and my 


NEBUCHADNEZZAR^S WIFE. 697 

Then I dropped on my knees in the darkness and stretched forth my 
arms to its air, 

As though I could clasp and possess it because my beloved one was there ; 

And I cried, O my King, I await thee, whatever be thy doom or thy 
dole ! 

Let the gods work their worst on thy body ; not that do I seek, but 
thy soul ! 

Come hating me — fear shall not fright me, nor pride my quick pardon 
efface ! 

Come mad — I will soothe thee to mildness ; come brute-like — my arms 
will embrace ! 

Come deformed — I shall know thee and love thee ! Come hideous — 
thou shalt not repel ! 

Thou art heaven to me always, though branded with scars from the 
forges of hell 

... Was it wind in the trees ? Was it movement of deer through 
the foliage dank ? 

I knew not, but listening and yearning, low down in the darkness I 
sank. 

Still the sound, stealing nearer and nearer ! — still the sound, creeping 
close ! — but no sight. 

Save the lawns that flowed black all about me, and the stars overhead 
that burned white ! 

Did I dream? Was the darkness dividing? Had he heeded the 
prayer I had prayed ? 

Then a voice. ... It was his, yet so mournful ! . . . ^^ Amyitis, art 
thou not afraid . . . 

No ! no ! no I flashed forth . . . and so speaking, I gazed where 
he grovelled supine. 

One rank detestation and horror, fit consort for earth-searching swine ! 

But I shrank not an instant before him; unreluctant I leaned and 
embraced ; 

Had I clung to him glorious and stately, to spurn him now, marred 
and defaced ? 

And I cried, Whatsoe’er thine abasement, low down to it, lord, let me 
bow ! 

Though the barrier between us be loathsome, still, love, I am I, thou 
art thou !” 

Night by night we met thus till the bondage that fettered and foiled 
him had ceased. 

Till he rose once more Nebuchadnezzar, he rose disenthralled and 
released. . . . 

All the people have hailed him with welcomes till their gladness the 
land hath overflowed ; 

But on me, Amyitis, adored one, his dearest of smiles are bestowed ! 


698 


OLD DELAWARE, 


OLD DELAWARE. 

I KNOW of no pleasanter way to spend the hazy days of late fall 
than in an idle, objectless ramble through Delaware. 
Philadelphians and New-Yorkers who rampage here and there — to 
the Pacific coast or to Norway or up the Nile in search of new scenery 
— will pass twenty times a year on express-trains to Washington 
through the upper part of this little State, not knowing that a few 
miles below them are landscapes remote and peculiar in dream-like 
beauty as the old pictures of Arcady, and gray lichen-stained houses, 
rich in associations and legends which are more important to us than 
any in the Old World. 

Even if they did know it, I am not at all sure that the crowd would 
turn down into these calm solitudes ; for the American of the Middle 
and Southern States is apt to set but a small value on his own historic 
associations. When he is in England he is full of enthusiastic venera- 
tion for her ancient landmarks, but he never bethinks himself that he 
has any at home. Charles Kingsley, when he came to this country, 
said that the place which he most wished to see was John Bartram’s 
garden. But how many Philadelphians could have guided him to it 
or know now its significant, pathetic story ? 

In England the spot is marked where William stumbled as he 
leaped on shore to begin a new era of pillage and murder, and Ameri- 
can tourists go to find it. But how many of them ever made a pil- 
grimage to the rush-bordered bank of the Delaware where Minuit first 
set foot when he was sent by Oxenstiern to found a country in which 
every man should be free to worship God as he chose’^? Yet it 
was under the rule of those Swedes here in Philadelphia, and of the 
Quakers who followed them, that religious liberty first became a prac- 
tical fact in the world. A different landing from that of the Con- 
queror, and a different ending ! 

New England, unlike ourselves, is not lacking in deference to her 
traditions. Indeed, while American literature is almost silent con- 
cerning the early days of the lower colonies, there has been a tireless, 
incessant issue from Boston presses of essays, novels, and poems bear- 
ing on the history of the Pilgrim Fathers and their sons. Tliere is a 
little danger, as a result of this commendable effort, that the reading- 
population of the United States will fall into the belief that we all 
come from a common stock ; that two centuries ago there were no 
towns here, no industries, no habits, manners, or religion, but those of 
the Puritans ; that all our ancestors were kinsmen of Cotton Mather, 
and partook of his grim thin-blooded virtues and his godly hatred of 
witches, Quakers, and Indians. 

Johns Hopkins University, during the last year or two, has done 
much to rouse the larger part of the country from its indifference to its 
own history by searching out, verifying, and giving enduring shape to 
the traditions of individual localities. This is the only effort, as far 


OLD DELAWARE, 699 

as I know, to place the history of the Middle and Southern States on 
any sound and permanent basis. 

Throughout the whole extent of these States the old houses are 
falling into decay, the old people are dying out, and nobody cares to 
write down their recollections and legends. They are so familiar and 
commonplace to us that we forget how picturesque and invaluable they 
would be to our grandchildren when they will essay to give life to the 
bare political facts of American history. There has been no Walpole 
nor Pepys among us to preserve the manners, dress, domestic life, or 
lingual peculiarities of those early days of Pennsylvania, Virginia, or 
Georgia. 

No State, probably, is as guilty in this respect as Delaware. She 
has not even, as most of the others have, a county history which pre- 
serves the individual traits of the special colony. 

Thomas Campanius, nearly two centuries ago, published in Sweden 
an account of the Province of New Sweden,^^ as it was in his day. 
Another old book, known to but a few historical students, in which 
some record of the upper counties of Delaware may be found, is the 
^^Description of the Swedish Churches on the River De La Warr,^^ 
published in Stockholm in 1759 by Israel Acrelius, and dedicated to 
the Most Mighty Louisa Ulrica, Queen of the Swedes, the Goths, and 
the Vends. In 1870, Francis Vincent, a loyal Delawarian, began a 
history of his native State, because, as he states, in two hundred and 
thirty-eight years no other person had thought proper to write it before 
him. But Mr. Vincent died when he had brought his history only 
down to 1664, and no hand has since taken up his work. 

There is an historical society in Wilmington, it is true, and in 
almost every old town in the State some antiquarian collects papers and 
relics of the Swedes and Dutch; but no practical use has ever been 
made of them. 

Yet Delaware itself is full of the traces, the dibris, of the old times. 
There is no easier way for an idle man to fall back two centuries than 
to leave Philadelphia some October day and to journey slowly south- 
ward. The green, sluggish Schuylkill, creeping through the city, 
slimy with the washings of a dozen towns, and covered with grimy 
lumber- and marble-sloops, is the ‘^fair riveP^ which debouched so 
quietly into the bay that spring day when Hendrikson discovered it that 
he called it the hidden creek.’^ Yonder is Tinicum Island, where 
Governor Printz and Lady Armagot held their drunken and unruly 
court. The big wooden hotels of Gloucester come in sight, to which 
Philadelphia politicians swarm in March to hold caucuses and eat 
planked shad ; close to them is the ground, overgrown now by great 
elms, on which the first house on the Delaware was built. As soon as 
he leaves behind the brick-yards, the yellow, box cottages, and the 
huge board advertisements in which the soul of the American shop- 
keeper rejoiceth, and enters country fields and lanes, he comes closer 
to the past. He begins to see, here and there, a low gray stone house 
sunken deep in the ground : these were built by some of Queen Chris- 
tina^s colonists after they had begun to grow rich in Nya Sverige. 
They usually lived for the first year or two in caves dug in a con- 


700 


OLD DELAWARE. 


venient hill-side, with a shed of planks as a frontage. Our traveller 
passes through the ancient town of Uplandt, which they founded, and 
which now is the thriving city of Chester. 

If he have the good luck to be an unpractical, imaginative fellow, 
it will be easier for him when he enters Delaware to thrust aside the 
two centuries that rise between him and these early colonists. He will 
build again their cabins snuggled down between the low, wooded hills, 
and recognize the bluffs rising above the bay on which Hollanders, 
Swedes, and Finns built their little forts and fought their battles. 
Nature comes to his help in getting rid of the present. She knows 
nothing of centuries. She covers these hills with the same oaks and 
gum-trees of which Acrelius wrote; she hides the clay banks of the 
railway-cutting under the same golden-rod which the Lenapi used as a 
medicine ; the same white yarrow which the Finns declared wore out 
their land^^ thrusts its plumy blossoms now against the very wheels of 
the steam-engine. 

If he wishes to go back to the very beginning of the story of Dela- 
ware, he will pass down through New Castle and Kent counties, and, 
crossing Sussex at a right angle, find himself at the mouth of Delaware 
Bay. If he is wise, he will go early in the morning to look for the first 
time at this great flood emptying itself into the sea. To hold it back, 
the Breakwater thrusts itself out from the land like a mighty black 
arm with the forefinger stretched out. 

If the night has been stormy, a fleet of ships are crowding behind 
it for shelter. Now, in the soft morning air they begin to shake their 
white wings and scud noiselessly out and away : the low sun tinges 
them pink and purple as they cross the surf and are lost in the gray 
distance of the sea. To the right is Cape Henlo}:>en, a dreary stretch 
of white beach, huge sand-dunes, and marshes, which are saffron and 
red now in tlie faint, early light : the light-house commands the bay 
and the sea : to the left a sluggish creek creeps down through the sand, 
and behind it is the ancient burgh of Lewes (or Lewistown), the quietest 
and oddest town in the United States. 

One hot, fair August day just two hundred and seventy-seven 
years ago the first white man, Hendrik Hudson, turned his ship here 
into this bay from the sea, hunting for a short cut to China, but did 
not land. The next year Sir Samuel Argyll entered it, and named the 
^Uaud and great gulff’ for Lord De la Warr, then governor of Vir- 
ginia. Four years later a Dutch adventurer, Captain Cornelis Mey, 
sailed into the mouth of the bay in his yacht the Onrust, naming the 
eastern cape for himself. The Indians watched these strange craft 
in terror, but none of the explorers landed. Two years afterwards, 
however, another Hollander, Hendrikson, sailed up the Delaware as 
far as the Schuylkill, and began the process of civilization by buying 
two slaves. 

In 1613 a Dutch patroon, De Vries, pushed his boat laden with 
emigrants up into this sluggish creek, then a deep, strong river navi- 
gable for men-of-war, and named it Hoorn kill. On the bank of this 
river, where Lewes now stands, was an Indian village. The Dutch 
for a few months were busy raising tobacco and harpooning the whales 


OLD DELAWARE. 


701 


that then came far up the bay. They then began to harpoon the In- 
dians, who had received them hospitably. The end of that was, justly 
enough, that every white man was murdered. For many years their 
bones >and skulls whitened the salt meadow where now stretches the 
crooked main street of Lewes. 

The next spring the Key of Kalmar, a ship which came filled 
with sturdy Swedish laborers, under Minuit, to found a free city in the 
wilderness, after driving to and fro on the seas for nine months, entered 
the great bay. The tired voyagers, full of joy and hope, debarked at 
the mouth of Hoornkill Creek, and so fair and pleasant did the place 
appear to them that they named it Paradyset. Finding, however, in a 
few hours the skeletons of De Vries’s colonists, they set sail again up 
the bay, making their first settlement at Christina. Other Swedish 
colonists soon peopled Paradyset. 

The Swedes, not Penn, as a matter of fact, were the first foreigners 
who dealt justly with the Indians, buying their land and living peace- 
ably with them. I have a strong suspicion, too, that Penn first gained 
the idea of his city of brotherly love” from Oxenstiern while in 
prison in London. If not, the fact that he did found such a city in 
which religious liberty was a possibility, upon the very spot in the 
wilderness designated by Gustavus Adolphus fifty years before as the 
place where he would establish a refuge for the oppressed of all nations, 
is one of the most remarkable coincidences in history. 

For thirty-four years this western bank of the Delaware was stained ' 
with blood by the battles between the Swedes and Dutch. Then both 
were forced to surrender to the English. In the mean time the hamlet 
of Lewistown grew slowly. One or two communities of the mystical 
religious sects which at that time thronged to this unknown wilderness 
from Germany settled here. The English commander, Carr, among his 
other atrocities, plundered the poor Labadist brethren at Hoornkill, 
leaving them naked and starving. 

Under English rule the village grew into a town of importance. It 
had a fair Indian trade during colonial days. The great, many-gabled 
hipped-roofed houses which stand on the grassy back-streets now, sur- 
rounded by their quaint gardens full of hedges of clipped box, were 
stately dwellings a century ago, and belonged to merchants whose ships, 
sailing up the Hoornkill, brought spicy foreign odors into the quiet 
town. The descendants of these ancient worthies still live in some of 
the old houses, surrounded by mahogany sofas black with age, Dutch 
clocks, and priceless old Canton or Nankin ware. About sixteen years 
ago there was living in one of these houses a gentlewoman whose 
ninety-five years had dimmed neither her memory nor her wit. She 
remembered Lewes as a busy port of entry : she had seen her mother 
in brocade and roses set out to a ball in honor of Cornwallis’s sur- 
render. So closely do we jostle in these sleepy by-ways with tlie past. 

After the battle of Brandywine, Lord Beresford, with the Roebuck 
and her tenders, invested the town, demanding forty beeves as its price 
of safety. A Tory dame addressed the crowd on the street from her 
balcony, passionately asking whether they meant to sacrifice the town 
for a few old cows.” 

VoL. XLI.— 45 


702 


OLD DELAWARE. 


Go back to your spinning-wheel, woman replied Richard How- 
ard. The stout burghers howled defiance at the British, and the Roe- 
buck opened fire. Beresford, supposing Lewes to be a fortified town, 
aimed his guns at a mud-bank which he mistook for a rampart. The 
day was cloudy, and he did not discover his error. No damage was 
done, except to a barn-yard which chanced to belong to the indignant 
Tory lady. The Roebuck was forced to put to sea without provisions, 
whereupon some local wit effervesced into song : 

“ What valiant deeds, ye sons of men, 

To scare a cow and shoot a hen 

The joke is still laughed at by the boys of Lewes. They cherish 
a tradition, too, of a Spanish man-of-war which, when Cromwell was 
making war on Spain, fired into the village and put to sea again, 
threatening to return and blow it to hell. It has been fearfully looked 
for ever since. 

Nothing ever changes or dies out in Lewes. In 1812, six cannon 
were brought from Wilmington and mounted before the little inn com- 
manding tlie bay. There to-day is still the little inn, and there are the 
grisly cannon threatening every ship that enters the harbor. You may 
come back after twenty years to that inn, and you will be put in the 
same room with the pleasant wood fire, and the windows opening on 
the bay, and the unending procession of stately ships going up and 
down the great highway. 

. The town fell asleep more than a century ago, and never has 
wakened since. The cause of its lethargy was a singular one. The 
sand which rises out of the sea and marches steadily in dunes southward 
along this coast (as in the Landes of France), burying fields, houses, 
and pine forests sixty feet high, has been silently destroying for two 
centuries most of the lower rivers of Delaware. According to Vin- 
cent, Synapuxent and other estuaries in Sussex County, which are now 
marshes, mown ^very year, were once navigable for men-of-war. 

The Hoornkill, as stated in a manuscript in the British Museum, 
began to diminish in depth more than a century ago. The noble river, 
set with beautiful islands, up which De Vries sailed, has now vanished, 
and only this creeping creek is left oozing through beds of marsh and 
quicksands. Many tales of horror are told in the town about these 
quicksands, — of how horses and men, once in their deadly grip, sink 
quickly and never are seen again. 

The trade and life of Lewes died out with her river. The houses 
are occupied almost wholly by a community of pilots. These men 
receive high wages, their occupation compels them to be sober, and they 
spend their money, as a rule, on their families and homes. The houses 
are prettily painted, and the quaint old gardens, with their box borders 
and flower-beds set in boats and turtle-shells, all kept in prim order. 
But as all the men spend the days out in the pilot-boats waiting for ships, 
and the women have the Southern habit of staying in-doors, the town, 
large and orderly as it is, aj)pears always wrapped in a cheerful, smiling 
sleep. ' You may pass at noon through all the shady lanes which serve 


OLD DELAWARE. 


703 


for streets in an almost unbroken silence. About one o^clock a drowsy 
stir is felt. The captain of every outgoing and incoming vessel waits 
at the Breakwater for orders, and usually comes up to Lewes for his 
last or first shore meal. The furnishing of dinner to these half-dozen 
silent brown men is the one industry of Lewes. ‘‘ The Captains^^ are 
spoken of here as shoes are in Lynn, or cod at Gloucester. 

The old brick jail, the Episcopal church, and the ancient Mcll- 
vaine mansion, on the outskirts of the town, are its most picturesque 
features. A few low, gabled, high-roofed houses still stand along the 
creek, which belong to the early occupation of the Swedes. About 
seven miles from Lewes is Rehoboth, an energetic Methodist summer 
city. But the swarms of mosquitoes which lie between will, I hope, 
long defend the drowsy old burgh from any innovation of the summer- 
boarder. 

Coming up through Delaware in search of other old landmarks, the 
most energetic traveller must soon yield to the quieting atmosphere of 
comfort and calm in which the little State basks in the sun. He will 
see few signs of poverty or of great wealth. There are no manufac- 
tories outside of one or two towns. The population, for the most part, 
are a race of gentlemen farmers, who sip life in long, leisurely draughts, 
their chief interest being the slow blossoming and ripening of their 
peach-orchards. They have plenty of time for politics, books, and 
social enjoyment. Their wives and daughters have, in manner, the in- 
describable cachet of Southern women, but, never having been served 
by slaves, they lack the languid drawl of their Maryland sisters, and, 
having escaped the horrors of the civil war, they have also missed 
the acridity and sharpness which so often give a bitter twang to' the 
character of the modern Virginian. The negroes are fat and well fed, 
and on Sundays crowd the streets of every town in more costly gar- 
ments than those of the people who pay them well for doing nothing. 

The whole State, more than any other, carries an air of affluent 
peace. Great forests of oak-, gum-, and nut-trees cover the hills in the 
north, the swamps in Sussex County are filled with game and pierced 
with inlets, the breeding-grounds of the finest oysters and fish ; between 
the hills and these swamps peach-orchards and vineyards sweep across 
the entire State, from the sea to the bay. In early spring the whole 
of the brown slopes of Kent and Sussex seem to be covered with light 
veils of rosy pink. When it happens that the sky is gray, and swift 
flurries of snow fall through the blooms, the picture is beyond measure 
airy and charming. 

In the fall of the year the surface of the country, with those count- 
less vineyards and orchards, purples and crimsons into a glow of rap- 
turous color. Artists who hunt through Brittany for new effects of 
fields and peasants should come to a Delaware peach-orchard in early 
September, with its heaped fruit and mulatto gatherers. 

This State has been in no haste to throw off‘ any old tradition. She 
is still divided into ‘‘ hundreds,^^ according to the plan in use among 
the Saxons before Alfred. In the jail-yards of her county towns the 
whipping-posts introduced two centuries ago are still busy at work. 
Her sons do not wander away West to better their fortunes. The de- 


704 


OLD DELAWARE. 


scendants of the Rodneys, the Ridgleys, the Jaqiietts, the Bayards, the 
Du Pouts, and other early Swedish, Dutch, and French colonists, still 
live on their farms. 

Wilmington, through its vast manufacturing interests, is better 
known throughout the country than any other Delaware town. It 
stands on the site where Minuit founded the first Swedish village, 
naming it Christina for the little queen. The church, built when Phil- 
adelphia was ‘^a clever little town,^^ still stands close to the Philadel- 
phia and Wilmington Railway where it enters the city. Every street 
in Wilmington has its historic or traditionary interest. On the fields 
near the river Campanius saw the rattlesnakes three yards long, with 
heads like a dog’s, that could bite off a man’s leg clean as by an axe.” 
Fire-flies on dark nights then came across these fields, so huge,” 
states the learned doctor, ‘^that the soldiers on guard at Fort Chris- 
tina took flight, thinking an army was coming with torches.” 

In the old Swedish graveyard rests Christopher Springer, a Swedish 
nobleman who was kidnapped in London, thrown into the hold of a 
ship bound to Virginia, and there sold as a slave. Escaping after 
many years, he made his way on foot to the Swedish colony at Chris- 
tina, and there remained. This was the basis of Reade’s story of The 
Wandering Heir.” 

To Christina, too, often came Lady Armagot, the daughter of the 
gigantic Governor Printz, when he “ played the master on Tinicum 
Island over New Sweden.” Even after all these years, some distinc- 
tive flavor of this woman’s beauty, pride, and stubbornness reaches us. 
When her huge drunken father ceased to be a nuisance in the world, 
and was hid away, much to its relief, in the eternal silence, Armagot 
abjured her husband, Papagoija, and set up a principality at Printzdorp, 
gathering a Swedish colony of subjects about her. Soon afterwards 
came the bloody battles between the Swedes and Dutch at Fort Chris- 
tina. The Dutch remained victors, sole masters of the western coast 
of the Delaware. The Swedish men were killed, their women outraged, 
and their houses left in ruins. Madame Armagot, however, kept the 
invaders at bay during her lifetime, which was fast and furious. 

After Sir Robert Carr had in turn conquered the Dutch, English 
settlers took possession of Christina, which now became Wilmington. 
It was the birthplace of many home-keeping men whose wisdom and 
bravery were brought out by the Revolutionary crisis. Major Peter 
Jaquett was foremost among these : he served under Washington in 
every battle which he fought. De Kalb died in his faithful arms. 

Captain Hugh Montgomery, sailing from this port on the brig 
Nancy, was sent by Robert Morris to Porto Rico for Spanish arms. At 
St. Thomas Captain Montgomery heard that independence was declared, 
and startled the foreign ships in the harbor by pulling down the British 
flag and running up a rough flannel imitation of the stars and stripes, 
which had been made on board, and was saluted with thirteen guns. 
He was the first man to display the national colors in alien waters. 
The Nancy was attacked on her return, at the mouth of the Dela- 
ware, and the captain blew her to atoms to keep her cargo from the 
British. 


OLD DELAWARE, 


705 


A large number of French refugees of noble birth fled to this 
country in 1790 and remained in Wilmington. You can find hints of 
their blood in the olive skins, the vivacity, the espnt, of many citizens 
of the old town, though their names have taken an American spelling 
and sound. 

Dover, the capital of the little State, is probably the most beautiful 
inland town in the United States. Its meanest streets are fairly em- 
bowered in trees; stately avenues of elms or maples give dignity to 
the cheap houses in the suburbs, while the larger dwellings are set 
within extensive grounds, planted with an unusual fine simplicity 
and artistic eflect. They are homes, not houses, and face the stranger 
with a significance of good-breeding and hospitality which some of our 
wealthiest mansions lack. The older part of the town, according to 
the Southern fashion, is built around a little mall or park ; many of 
the old dwellings are still surrounded by the quaint flower-beds 
bordered with box which were the delight of gardeners in the days of 
the Stuarts. On the outside of the town stands the venerable Christ 
Church, beneath whose solemn shadow the forefathers of the hamlet 
sleep,’^ who, however, were anything but rude, if we are to believe 
their ponderous epitaphs, but possessed, rather, of all the high courtly 
virtues of a race of well-bred saints. The place of their rest is so 
quiet, the winds blow and the birds chirp so cheerfully above them, 
and the trees spread their huge limbs with such perpetual benediction 
of peace, that here, surely, if anywhere, the tired wayfarer would grow 
in love with easeful death. 

When Acrelius wrote, in 1759, Dover had but one hundred houses. 
It has grown steadily since then in wealth, refinement, and content. 
There is an admirable quality of unpretentious solidity in the little 
city. She has few industries, but they are carried on with great 
thoroughness. Even in the matter of preserved food, Dover supplies 
France with many a bonne-bouche, and England with her national 
plum-pudding in enormous quantities, better than any eaten by bluff 
King Hal himself. 

Once a year the State fair is held here and the town is possessed 
by a sort of bucolic frenzy; but at all other times it wears the air of 
complacent repose, of well-to-do smiling content, which characterizes 
the whole State. 

But the essence, the typical expression, of Old Delaware is to be 
found in New Castle. You should see this town first from the bay on 
an October evening, when the sun, setting behind the ancient burgh, 
lights up the tiers of dark, quaint houses that rise from the edge of the 
water and the lines of yellow oaks and blood-red maples which fill the 
sombre streets with color. The angry tides of two centuries have 
slowly eaten away part of the old town. Fort Casimir, built here by 
Stuyvesant in 1653, and the fields about it on which Swedes and Dutch 
fought for it, have long ago crumbled into the fast-encroaching water. 
Drufve Udden, as it was called in Sweden, and New Amstel in Hol- 
land, has had a more romantic history than any other American town. 
It was long the bone of contention between the two kingdoms. "When 
the Dutch had at last secure possession of it, it was laid out under 


706 


OLD DELAWARE. 


Governor Jaquett, and is therefore the oldest town in Delaware. The 
city of Amsterdam became sponsor for this new-born burgh. It 
formally undertook to send over colonists, to build for them fortifica- 
tions, public works, a church, school-house, storehouse, and market; 
to provide them for one year with clothing, seeds, and food ; to ap- 
point officials and police, etc. Their High Mightinesses the Burgo- 
masters of Amsterdam kept their part of the pact. Large bodies of 
colonists were sent out under Alricks and d’Hinoyossa. But fever 
attacked them. Alricks soon proved to be a tyrant, and the poor emi- 
grants escaped as they could to Virginia. The Burgomasters continued 
to send over ships filled with colonists, many of whom died of starva- 
tion in the model town. They also imported hundreds of slaves direct 
from Africa for the use and profit of the citizens of New Amstel. 

When the town was ten years old, it was captured by the English 
under Sir Robert Carr. The Dutch soldiers and many citizens were 
sold as slaves in Virginia. The English, having driven the wretched 
Dutch colonists out of their houses (as they had driven the Swedes), 
went into them, like robber crabs, and New Amstel was dubbed New 
Castle. 

The town retains the old lines on which it was laid out by Jaquett, 
but few traces of the Dutch regime remain. An old house, built with 
tiles from Amsterdam and said to have been the residence of d’Hino- 
yossa, was partially destroyed last winter. The old court-house, 
Swedish Church, graveyard, and almshouses, surrounded by hoary 
old elms, form the nucleus of the town, as in the days of the Dutch, 
rulers. In the square behind the court-house offenders w^^e publicly 
whipped, and both Dutch and English governors are said to have 
looked on the punishment with satisfaction when the offence was 
against themselves. So intolerable was the rule of some of these petty 
tyrants that revolts were frequent. One (against Lord Lovelace) was 
led by a Jan Konigsmarck, known as the Long Finn. But the vil- 
lage Hampden was defeated, and was scourged in this square, branded, 
and sold into perpetual slavery in the Barbadoes. 

Into this rough world came many strange signs and. sounds from 
the darker one beyond. Acrelius tells us of a miraculous tree in New 
Castle Hundred on which rain fell incessantly for a year while all else 
was dry. The wicked captain of a ship, while in this harbor, was 
attacked visibly by the devil in sight of the crew and townspeople. 
Although he had himself lashed to the mast and the words of the 
Bible were fairly shouted at him, he was carried off in a tempest of 
rain and lightning and seen no more of men. 

William Penn received a grant from James, Duke of York, of the 
town of New Castle, with all the land lying within a circle of twelve 
miles from that centre. The yearly rent was to be a rose to be given 
the duke every Michaelmas. Penn crossed the ocean to see his prin- 
cipality, and landed at New Castle one October day in 1682. The 
house is shown in which it is claimed that he slept the first night in the 
New World. The original grant from the Duke of York to Penn 
hangs in a wooden frame in the hall of a modest little house in New 
Castle. Its owner, Henry Rogers, Esq., has in his possession many 


OLD DELAWARE. 


707 


original documents bearing on our colonial and Revolutionary history, 
among them private letters concerning military movements from Wash- 
ington, Lafayette, Greene, and Arnold. The day will come (when the 
nation shall have passed through the preparatory stage of money-getting 
to higher classes in the school of life) when it will liold such docu- 
ments as these of incomparable value. That time, morels the pity, is 
not now. 

Many houses in New Castle date back to the days of the splendor of 
the early English governors. They are solid and massive, with wide 
halls and corridors in which a modern city house w^ould be lost, dec- 
ocrated with the ugly stiff carved fluting in doors, cornices, and win- 
dow-frames, flush with the w^alls, which was so much used in this 
country under the old Quaker regime. 

If our traveller have that liking, common to quiet, leisurely people, 
for making the acquaintance of dead men, he will find no better field 
than in the church-yard and old legends of New Castle. Dignitaries of 
Revolutionary and colonial days crowd upon each other in their graves 
about the little old church, dumbly asking his attention, — governors, 
signers of the Declaration, chancellors, and naval heroes, each with a 
quota of virtues that would kill the chances for office of any modern 
politician. 

Traveller peremptorily demands one commanding monument, 
what do you inquire ? Know that our friend Hercules Coutts, hold- 
ing high civil and military trusts in this colony, of temper forbearing, 
of manner courteous, yielded to the fiat of Fate through bilious fever in 
1707.^^ Near at hand lies the wife of a sheriff who caused to Hew 
and Hire to. place this Stone,^^ to state that she ^^came of the ancient 
and creditable London family of Spauldings, that her chastity w^as 
strict, her oeconomy prudent, and her piety without ostentation.^^ The 
earthly and spiritual claims to notice of ^^a distinguished jurist and 
agriculturist^^ are set forth by a marble pile composed of Jersey cows, 
pumpkins, corn, a book, and a dove. Buried almost out of sight in 
the rank grass are the sunken, nameless head-stones beneath which lie 
the old Dutch rulers. 

I know of no place (except a certain old church-yard in Virginia) 
where the dead seem so alive, with all their ancient state and little pa- 
thetic vanities, and hunger for the approval and notice which can never 
come to them again, as here among these long-forgotten dignitaries of 
New Amstel. When you sit in the dusk of the evening among the 
mouldering head-stones, you look out upon the same old square which 
was familiar to them. The brown leaves are blown by the wind from 
the bay down from the same elms and oaks under which they walked ; 
there, on those flag-stones, brave Jan Konigsmarck was beaten nigh to 
death, and yonder sat Lord Lovelace, calmly eying his tortures. In 
those houses fronting on the bay, the Dutch patroons, we are told, 
cruelly abused the slaves imported from the Congo for their use, and 
out of those same houses Carr and his soldiers drove the Dutchmen, 
selling them in the square as slaves to the owners of vessels sailing 
South. That grassy, elm-shaded square, across which a lazy negro 
saunters, echoed to the footsteps of all the colonial and Revolutionary 


708 


OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. 


officials. The grass and the elms remain, but the very name of New 
Amstel is forgotten, and beneath our feet lie the ancient worthies. As 
the dusk gathers, and we turn our steps homeward, one can fancy that 
out of every grave comes a shadowy arm, and a voice crying, like 
Hercules Coutts, Traveller, what do you inquire ? Behold, here 
am 

I have nothing to say of New Delaware, or of the great industries 
that ally her to the real world. It is a comfort to escape from the real 
world and great industries now and then. 

Wilmington, as everybody knows, has her powder-mills, her iron-, 
car-, and carriage-works, which employ legions of operatives. Dover 
has her large manufactories, and even Georgetown sends her wooden 
placques and plates by millions all over the world, — to artists in Italy 
and to savages at the Cape of Good Hope. 

But our quiet October ramble has nothing to do with industries or 
statistics. They only hinder us as Ave endeavor to sketch old Delaware 
as she lies calmly sleeping in the autumnal haze, bound in by glittering 
salt water, and to outline her half-forgotten story in the hope that some 
other hand may be moved to write it with accuracy and precision. 


OUE MONTHLY GOSSIP 

WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. 


L. C. K. wants to know who wrote the song La Donna ^ mobile.^’ 

This song occurs in Verdins opera of Rigoletto,” the libretto of which, like 
Tom Taylor^s melodrama of “ The Foofs Revenge,’’ is an adaptation from Victor 
Hugo’s Le Roi s’amuse.” The music, of course, is Verdi’s. The words are an 
amplification of the famous couplet,— 

Souvent femme varie, 

Bien fol est qui s*y fie, 

which Hugo has incorporated into his drama, and which tradition affirms that 
Francis I. wrote with a diamond upon the window of the chateau of Chambord. 
But Brantdme, who saw the writing, says that the words were simply ‘‘ Toute 
femme varie.” (Virgil had already said ‘‘ Varium et mutabile semper foemina.”) 
If the words were really engraved with a diamond, this is the first instance on 
record when the diamond was used for that purpose. There is a pretty story to 
the effect that Francis’s sister. Queen Margaret of Navarre, entered the room as 
he was scratching the ungallant couplet and indignantly declared that she could 
cite twenty instances of man’s inconstancy. ‘‘ Nay, that is not to the purpose,” 
said Francis: “cite me rather one instance of woman’s constancy.” “Can you 
cite me an instance of her inconstancy?” asked the queen. Now, at this very 
moment there was languishing in prison in Paris a gentleman of the court, and 


OUJi MONTHLY GOSSIP. 


709 


his wife, one of the queen’s ladies-in- waiting, was reported to have taken advan- 
tage of her husband’s disgrace to elope with his page. At all events, page and 
lady had disappeared. When Francis mentioned this fact, Margaret declared 
that time would vindicate the lady. The monarch laughed. ‘‘ If within a 
month,” he said, her character is vindicated, I will break this pane of glass 
and grant thee any boon thou wishest.” Many days had not elapsed when it 
was discovered that not the lady but her husband had fled with the page. She 
had exchanged clothes with the former in prison, and was even now in his place. 
Margaret claimed the husband’s pardon, and the king destroyed the pane of 
.glass. 

Popular proverbs of all nations are full of unkind allusions to woman. It 
is rare indeed to find a popular saying that speaks well of the sex. “ Women 
are variable as April weather,” say the Germans ; Women, wind, and fortune 
soon change,” say the Spaniards ; while the English equivalent is “ A woman’s 
mind and April wind change oft.” Women are talkative : A woman’s tongue 
wags like a lamb’s tail” (English). ‘^A woman’s strength is in her tongue” 
(Welsh). Women are never at a loss for words” (German). “Three women 
and three geese make a market” (Italian). “Foxes are all tail and women are 
all tongue” (French). “All women are good Lutherans: they would rather 
preach than hear mass” (Danish). “ A woman’s tongue is her sword, and she 
does not let it rust” (Chinese). They are great blabbers: “To a woman and a 
magpie tell what you would speak in the market-place” (Spanish). “ A woman 
conceals what she does not know” (English). “ Women can keep a secret, but 
it takes a great many of them to do so” (American). They have little logic, yet 
their intuitions are sometimes valuable : “ Women are wise off-hand, fools on 
reflection” (Italian). “ Take a woman’s first advice, but not her second” (French). 
“A woman’s counsel is no great thing, but he who does not take it is a fool” 
(Spanish). “Summer-sown corn and women’s advice turn out well once in 
seven years” (German). “ Women are watches that keep bad time” (Ibid.). “ It 
is sometimes right even to obey a sensible wife” (Servian). To the latter proverb 
there hangs a tale. A Herzegovinian once asked a kadi whether a man ought 
to obey his wife, and was answered in the negative. Then said the Herzego- 
vinian, “ My wife pressed me this morning to bring thee* a pot of beef suet, but 
I rejoice to know that I have done well in disobeying her.” “ Verily,” returned 
the kadi, “it is sometimes right even to obey a sensible wife.” Women are 
quarrelsome and self-willed: “Because is a woman’s answer” (English). “He 
that has a wife has strife” (French). “ What a woman wills, God wills” (Ibid.). 
“ Gie her her will, or she’ll burst” (Scotch). They are vain and greedy of praise : 
“Women and maidens must be praised, whether truly or falsely” (German). 
“ Every woman would rather be handsome than good” (Ibid.). They are untrust- 
worthy : “Beware of a bad woman, and put no trust in a good one” (Spanish). 
They must be handled roughly. Here are a Latin, an Italian, and an English 
couplet which all teach the same ungallant doctrine : 

Nux, asinus, mulier simili sunt lege ligata, 

HaBc tria nil recte faciunt si verbera cessant. 

Donne, asini e noci 

Voglion’ le mani atroce. 

A spaniel, a woman, and a walnut-tree— 

The more they are beaten, the better they be. 


710 


OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP, 


Much wiser is the Scotch saying, “You may ding the deil into a wife, but ye’ll 
ne’er ding him out o’ her.” With such a catalogue of faults, it is no wonder that 
in French proverbial philosophy “ A man of straw is worth a woman of gold,” 
that the Germans think “ There are only two good women in the world : one of 
them is dead, and the other is not to be found,” and complain that “ A bag of 
fleas is easier to keep guard over than a woman,” that the Italians say, “ Women 
rouge that they may not blush,” and “ He that loseth his wife and a farthing 
hath a great loss of his farthing,” that the Spaniards say, “ There is only one bad 
wife, and every man thinks he has her” (the Scotch, by the way, are so sur- 
prisingly gallant as to quote the same proverb with only the word “ good” sub- 
stituted for “bad”), and that the proverbs of all nations unite in warning the 
bachelor, “Marry in haste and repent at leisure.” Yet, after all, perhaps the 
wisdom of the ages is summed up in the Portuguese “ Women are supernumerary 
when present, and missed when absent.” 

L. M. G. asks. What is the meaning of the word “ Jingoism” ? 

In the Basque language the word “ Jingo” means God, and is a common 
form of adjuration. Probably the English caught the oath “ by Jingo !” from 
the Basque sailors. But Halliwell derives the word from a corruption of St. 
Gingoulph. The word “Jingoism” has acquired a new meaning in British 
politics since 1877. At the height of the anti-Kussian excitement, when Lord 
Beaconsfield, the premier, was determined to protect Turkey from Russia, while 
Gladstone advocated non-interference, a song became very popular in the Eng- 
lish music-halls, the refrain of which was, — 

We donT want to fight, but, by Jingo, if we do, 

WeVe got the ships, weVe got the men, weVe got the money too. 

“ Jingo” was derisively cast as a nickname at the warlike party, and was proudly 
accepted by them. The term has ever since been applied to those who pander to 
popular favor by noisy advocacy of popular measures. 

The following parody of the song appeared in the Fall Mall Gazette : 

We don’t want to fight, but, by Jingo, if we do. 

We’ve Protestant and Catholic, Turk, infidel, and Jew; 

We’ve “God” and “Mammon,” “Allah,” “Buddha,” “Brahma,” and “Vishnu:” 

We’ve collared all the deities, so what can Russia do? 

L. 0. R. asks whether Wm. R. Spencer’s ballad of Beth-Gelert celebrates an' 
historical fact. 

Gelert or Gellert, according to Welsh legend, was a greyhound belonging to 
Prinoe Llewellyn, son-in-law of King John of England. One day the prince 
found his child’s cradle empty and the dog’s mouth smeared with blood. In 
sudden fury he slew Gelert, but the next moment revealed the child unhurt, and 
beside it the body of a wolf whom the dog had slain. Llewellyn, in self-reproach, 
raised a monument over the faithful brute, and to this day the place is called 
Beth-Gelert, or Gelert’s grave. W. R. Spencer’s ballad of “ Beth-Gelert” is well 
known. But the name was really derived from St. Gelert, a Welsh saint of the 
fifth century, to whom the church of Llangeller is consecrated. And the legend 
itself is not indigenous to Wales, but in one form or another reappears in the 
folk-lore of almost every Aryan nation. It was borrowed from the Panchatantra, 


OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. 


711 


a collectiou of Sanskrit fables, by the compiler of the “ Gesta Komanorum,^^ thence 
passed into a popular tale throughout Europe, and in different countries was 
localized and individualized. Its Sanskrit origin is betrayed by the fact that in 
the Gesta Romanorum,’^ and in many of the local legends, a serpent takes the 
place of the wolf. There is little in accordance with European sentiments in a 
dog killing a serpent. But in the original Sanskrit a favorite mangoust or ich- 
neumon kills the serpent. Among the ancient Hindoos the mangoust, which in 
its wild state kills and eats serpents, was domesticated. The same story is told in 
the Hitopadesa (iv. 13), but the misjudged animal is an otter. In the Arabic it 
is a weasel, in the Mongolian a polecat, in the Persian a cat. 

“What is the Dunmow Flitch asks C. R. R. 

At the church of Dunmow in Essex County, England, a flitch of bacon used 
to be given to any married couple who after a twelvemonth of matrimony would 
come forward and make oath that during that time they had lived in perfect 
harmony and fidelity. The origin of the custom is lost in the mists of antiquity. 
By some it is dubiously referred to Robert Fitzwalter, a favorite of King John, 
’who revived the Dunmow Priory at the beginning of the thirteenth century ; but 
it seems quite as likely that the good fathers themselves, rejoicing in their celi- 
bacy, instituted the custom as a jest upon their less fortunate fellows. The 
earliest recorded case of the awarding of the flitch is in 1445, when Richard 
Wright, of Badbury, Norfolk, a laborer, claimed and obtained it. But that there 
had been earlier cases of similar success is clearly evidenced by this couplet in 
Chaucer's “ Wife of Bath 

The bacon was not fet for them, I trow. 

That some men have in Essex at Dunmow. 

The custom seems to have lapsed and been revived from time to time at con- 
siderable intervals until 1763, when the lord of the manor discountenanced it, 
and removed what were known as the “ swearing-stones,'' upon which the couple 
knelt to take the requisite oaths. In 1855, however, Harrison Ainsworth, the 
novelist, himself the author of a story called “ The Dunmow Flitch," resolved to 
revive the custom, and a couple of flitches were in that year given away with 
much burlesque ceremony. But the popular interest could not be reawakened, 
and though in 1877 and in 1880 the flitch was again contested for, the contempo- 
rary reports tells us that “ the attendance was poor and the true joyous spirit was 
absent." The custom of awarding a prize of this sort for wedded faithfulness is 
not peculiar to Dunmow. For a century the abbots of St. Meleine, in Bretagne, 
gave the flitch, and a like trophy, with a gift of meal or corn, was enjoined to be 
given by the charter of the manor of Whichenouvre, in Stafibrd, granted in the 
time of Edward III. The manors of Whichenouvre, Scirescot, Redware, Neth- 
erton, and Cowler were held of the earls of Lancaster by Sir Philip de Somer- 
ville on condition that he should maintain and sustain one bacon flyke to be 
given to every man or woman after the day and year of their marriage were past, 
provided they could subscribe to certain conditions too long to reprint. Addison 
sets forth the whole charter in the Spectator ^ No. 607, October 15, 1714. 

J. J. P. asks a question “which has long troubled" him: “Was Pharaoh 
drowned in the Red Sea at the crossing of the Israelites ?" 

The question has troubled many Biblical scholars, and is still unsettled. The 
account in Exodus says nothing of the destruction of the king in person, though 
the passage “ overthrew Pharaoh and his host in the Red Sea" (Psalm cxxxvi. 15) 


712 


OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP, 


seems to imply that Pharaoh perished with his army. Charles S. Eobinson, in his 
^‘Pharaohs of the Bondage and the Exodus/’ leans, however, to the contrary 
opinion. It is curious that the manner of the death of Menephtha (son of 
Eameses II.), with whom the Pharaoh of the Exodus is now usually identified, 
is not recorded in profane history, that his mummy has never been found, and 
that there is no evidence that it ever lay in his tomb at Thebes. 

F. J. asks, “ How many wives had Julius Csesar, what were their names, and 
what is the order in which they come ?” 

Four : First, Cossutia, a lady whom he must have married in extreme youth 
for he divorced her in b.c. 83, when he was but seventeen, to substitute — 

• Second, Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna, a marriage which was followed by 
his proscription by Sulla, his flight from Eome, and his final reluctant pardon with 
the remark from the grim dictator that in that boy there are many Mariuses.” 
Cornelia died in B.c. 68, and was succeeded next year by — 

Third, Pompeia, a relative of Pompey, and a grand-daughter of Sulla, who 
was divorced B.c. 61, on suspicion of carrying on an intrigue with Publius 
Clodius. It was in reference to this divorce that Csesar made his famous remark, 
Caesar’s wife should be above suspicion.” Caesar’s last wife was — 

Fourth, Calpurnia, whom he married B.c. 59, and who survived him. 

In one of Gilbert’s Bab Ballads” A. J. F. has found an allusion to ** Poet 
Close and Mr. Tupper,” and he writes to ask. Who may Poet Close be? 

Poet Close, — John Close, the son of a Westmoreland butcher, who on the 
marriage of the late Lord Lonsdale sent him some verses of which these are a 
specimen : 

** The Honorable William Lowther, 

Our Secretary at Berlin, he, 

Respected much at Prussians court. 

Kept up our dignity. 

His nephew, now Lord Lonsdale, 

Upon his wedding-day, 

We wish all health and happiness, 

All heartily we pray.” 

This poem at once lifted Close into fame and fortune. The Hon. William 
Lowther, perhaps because he had not read the lines, but only the accompanying 
appeal for assistance, used his influence with Lord Palmerston, who placed the 
name of ‘‘John Close, Poet,” on the Pension List. Palmerston never heard the 
last of it : “ Poet Close” became a standing jest with the English humorists. The 
pension was withdrawn soon after. 

J. 0. G. Duffy writes, “ For the information of C. G., whose query is published 
in your April issue, permit me to state that officers of the French Academy occupy 
the same relative positions as the president, vice-president, treasurer, librarian, 
and secretary of any learned body. The officers, who are called ‘ Immortals,’ 
are elected by their colleagues. There is a corps of assistants to the librarian, 
secretary, and treasurer, who are paid employees, without any other distinction 
than the recognition of their equipment for the discharge of their duties. It 
should be remembered that the (literary) Academy is only one of six academies 
of forty members each, composing the Institute of France; but at the same time 
it is the most distinguished, and the greatest honor attaches to election in this 
department.” 


OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. 


713 


THE ONE HUNDRED PRIZE QUESTIONS. 

From all over the country come complaints that the daily and weekly news- 
papers are attempting to answer, with more or less (usually with less) correctness, 
the questions here propounded. The newspapers are not to blame for this. But the 
correspondents who send these queries, and who are probably contestants for the 
prizes, are seeking to gain an unfair advantage. As one of our subscribers urges, 
I do not think this a proper proceeding, and write to protest against it. It is 
not fair or just. For instance, after much labor, I have succeeded in solving two 
puzzling questions, and have them both in my list, when, lo I here are the answers 
given to every competitor.” We know that we can appeal to all editors who may 
see this notice to refrain from answering queries based upon Lippincott’s Prize 
Questions, and indeed we have received assurances from two gentlemen who have 
unintentionally erred in this way that they will keep a sharp lookout in the 
future. 

The first ten queries in the present batch are in regard to the authorship of 
the articles in this number. The number, it will be seen, is a No Name or 
anonymous one. Every article is contributed by an author of established repu- 
tation. All the writers are American. Eight are living, two have been num- 
bered among the honored dead. One of the latter, an author of great eminence, 
has a poem, copied from the album of an intimate friend, which, so far as we 
know, has never before been published. 

61. Who is the author of “ The Old Adam” ? 

62. Who is the author of ** From Bacon to Beethoven” ? 

63. Who is the author of Ding Dong” ? 

64. Who is the author of “ Mr. Sonnenschein’s Inheritance” ? 

65. Who is the author of The House of Hate” ? 

66. Who is the author of ^‘The Portrait and the Ghost”? 

67. Who is the author of “ A Little Child^s Talk” ? 

68. Who is the author of Weeds”? 

69. Who is the author of Nebuchadnezzar's Wife” ? 

70. Who is the author of Old Delaware”? 

71. Did Byron ever write a romance called “The Vampire”? 

72. What are the “ frost” or “ vintage” saints? 

73. What is a Fool's Paradise ? 

74. What was the Ked Spectre of the Tuileries, and in what poem is men- 
tion made of him ? 

75. What is Jedwood justice? Cite some analogous expression. 

76. Who was the Lady of Kynast? What famous poet made her the subject 
of a ballad ? And name three other famous poets who have written ballads on 
an analogous legend. 

77. What was the Peacock Throne? 

78. Who was the Princess Use? 

79. Who was the original of Hawthorne's “The Minister's Black Veil”? 

80. Who wrote the verses beginning, — 

There is no death — the stars go down 
To rise upon some fairer shore, 

And bright in heaven’s jewelled crown 
They shine for evermore. 

And to what famous author have they been falsely attributed? 


714 


BOOK-TALK. 


BOOK-TALK. 


I s an educated taste a curse or a blessing? Which is most to be envied, — the 
epicure over his terrapin and Amontillado, or the boy in the rapture of his 
first bonbon f As we grow older we learn to distinguish more certainly and more 
precisely the shades of difference between great writers and poor, to apprehend 
the deeper meaning of sage and poet ; we grow wiser, — perhaps (for even this 
may be doubted), — but are we any the happier for it? Le plaisir du critique die 
le plaisir d' entendre ks belles choseSy says Fenelon. We call this or that great 
genius a magician, we speak of the enchanted wand by which he waves us into 
faery-land. Ah, well ! there is a real faery-land, and we have all known it (for 
we too were born in Arcadia), where life is strange and new and full of delirious 
transport, where all the earth shouts for joy, where the morning stars, singing 
together, are not so sweet as the voices of the men and women whom we know, 
where every youth to every maid, and every maid to every youth, is that divine 
possibility w^hich in some one of them shall soon be realized, — that object towards 
whom all tumultuous passions shall trend, in whom love and awe and reverence 
shall find an abiding-place, so that all fleshly cerements shall fade away, and 
Soul stand naked before naked Soul, glorious and unabashed, and the Infinite be 
revealed. What ho! without there. Seneschal, a stoup of wine, — for the Re- 
viewer is old and wan and his heart is chill, and only the generous vintage of 
Oporto and Bordeaux may warm him to some dim remembrance of the splendors 
of his prime, — when, reeling with his passions and his imaginations, he first 
came upon the theatre of action. But all around him and about him there are 
still beings such as erstwhile he was, — living in that faery-land which is now only 
a remembrance and a regret, youths in the first flush of that glorious intoxica- 
tion, who reck not of the choice bouquet of the preciousest wines, who know not 
Bordeaux nor Port, to whose virgin palatfes the meanest vin ordinaire is as some 
divinest nectar. - 

Does the reader see the parable? Does he recognize that the Reviewer is 
comparing the great writers to Bordeaux and Port, which only the educated 
palate can fully appreciate, and the lesser writers to vin ordinaire^ which the 
educated would reject, yet which titillates all the nerves and glands of the un- 
educated with a joy that the former would give Golconda to reconquer? The 
young reader has a real intellectual advantage over his elders. He cares little 
for the subtler beauties of style, for great thoughts, for vivid insight, for any 
novelty in incident or situation, for any real approach of mind to mind. Enough 
if hero and heroine dance and flirt, love, quarrel, kiss, and make it up, if there 
be laughter and tears, sunshine and moonlight, open compliment and whispered 
adulation, the sheen of pretty dresses and of golden hair, the ring and the ripple 
of small-talk, — with a due allowance of incidents, accidents, and startling transi- 
tions. The alert imagination of youth catches fire at a word. Reader and 
novelist meet each other half-way : the novelist provides plot and characters, the 
reader dowers them with life and likelihood. 


BOOK-TALK, 


715 


The Reviewer has been listlessly glancing over a number of new novels, 
“ Only the Governess,” by Rosa Nouchette Carey, Marvel,” by the Duchess, 
“Pleasant Waters,” by Graham Claytor (all of which come to him from the 
Messrs. Lippincott), “ Roy^s Repentance,” by Adeline Sergeant, and “ Mona’s 
Choice,” by Mrs. Alexander (from Mr. Henry Holt), “ Gladys, a Romance,” by 
Mary Green leaf Darling (from D. Lothrop). Some of them bored him less than 
others, but all were hard to read, and still harder to keep in mind for four-and- 
twenty hours after the end had been reached. Was Mona’s choice a good one? 
what did Roy repent of? was it Gladys or the governess who was in love with 
the magnificent Dr. Stephen Forbes? why is the Duchess’s new novel called 
“Marvel,” and Mr. Clay tor’s “Pleasant Waters”? Candidly, he might find it 
difficult to answer all these queries. Had he been prudent, he would have made 
everything ready — pen, ink, paper, blotter — before attempting to write his 
review, and then read on in hot haste, skipping the descriptions and the fine 
language wherever they occur, and not even yielding to his chief temptation, 
that of taking a short nap, lest on waking he might have forgotten all he had 
read. But he omitted these precautions, and he can only chronicle a general 
sense of boredom. 

On the other hand, he has read three of Tolstoi’s books that have recently 
been translated, — two collections of short stories, “ The Invaders” and “ A Rus- 
sian Proprietor,” and a semi-philosophical, semi-religious treatise,” “ What to do? 
Thoughts evoked by the Census of Moscow,” — read them with eager pleasure, 
with renewed admiration for that great, strong, rugged, and utterly unpractical 
genius. Yet the pleasure he found in these excellent books was mild indeed 
compared with the tumultuous delight which many young girls give to the 
Duchess and Mrs. Alexander. Not in the printed page, but in the eye that reads, 
lies the real well-spring of pleasure in books : 

All rests with those who read. A work or thought 

^ Is what each makes it to himself, and may 

Be full of great dark meanings, like the sea. 

With shoals of life rushing; or like the air, 

Benighted with the wing of the wild dove, 

Sweeping miles broad o^er the far western woods, 

With mighty glimpses of the central light ; 

Or may be nothing — bodiless, spiritless. ^ 

Of the American novels of the past year the most delightful is George W. 
Cable’s “ Buonaventure ;” and the Reviewer says this with full remembrance 
of the fact that Crawford has recently published two excellent novels, “Paul 
Patoflf” and “ Marzio’s Crucifix,” the latter an especially admirable piece of work. 
“ Buonaventure” is an idyl in prose. It has all that delicate artistry which we 
are accustomed to in the best French pastoral novels. It reads almost like one 
of Erckmann-Chatrian’s novels, with the venue changed, and is as good as any of 
them. Yet it has a strong flavor of Americanism. 

But, though any adjective would suit it better than “ delightful,” the strong- 
est novel of the past twelvemonth is Edgar Saltus’s “ The Truth about Tristram 
Varick.” It is a book for our atrabiliar moods, when life seems to be all cant 
and hypocrisy, fair at the surface, rotten at the core, and we long for some one 
with strength and sincerity enough to reveal the hideous, latent truth. These 


716 


BOOK-TALK, 


moods pass away, and our liking for Tristram Varick may pass with them, but 
not our admiration for the perfection of its style, the brilliancy of its epigrams, 
and the exquisite art with which a most repulsive and unpleasant story has been 
handled. 

Chamberses Encyclopsedia has long held its own as one of the very best of the 
encyclopaedias. It claims no rivalship with the Britannica, which treats com- 
paratively few subjects but treats them exhaustively, for its aim is to give short 
and concise information on a large variety of topics. It is superior to most of 
the rivals to which it has served as a basis, for the very reason that it has so 
served. The articles have been written at first- and not at second-hand by 
specialists familiar with the subjects which they handled. It is not a compilation, 
but an original work. In the new edition, of which the first volume has just 
appeared (J. B. Lippincott Co.), the main objection which American readers 
have urged against this Encyclopsedia, the paucity of American topics, has been 
fully remedied. By a special arrangement, the articles on matters connected 
with this country have been written here. The whole work has been thoroughly 
revised, and, where necessary, rewritten, and is handsomely printed from entirely 
new plates. Among the contributors are W. J. Courthope, Alexander Bain, 
J. P. Mahafiy, S. Baring Gould, Grant Allen, Prince Kropotkine, John Murray, 
LL.D., etc. 

There are some books that it is a public ofience to criticise, as their authors 
crave only notoriety, and notoriety is gained whenever a knave is pilloried or a 
fool put into the stocks. The Reviewer therefore will have to deny the pillory 
to the reverend author of ‘‘ Why Priests should Wed,’’ and the stocks to the 
anonymous autjior of “ The Original Mr. Jacobs.” 

As to the author of An Essay on Hamlet, An Earthquake of Critics and 
Criticism” (Charles Brother & Co., Philadelphia), he seems an inoffensive 
lunatic who can only injure himself by being suffered to remain at large. 

Other books received are briefly as follows : From Charles H. Kerr & Co., 
Uplifts of Heart and Will,” a series of well-meant religious meditations ‘‘ad- 
dressed to earnest men and women,” by James H. West. From the Phono- 
graphic Institute, “ The Manual of Phonography,” by Benn Pitman and Jerome 
B. Howard, the jubilee edition of a book now deservedly in its two-hundredth 
thousand. From C. A. Montgomery & Co., “ Goodholme’s Domestic Encyclo- 
paedia of Practical Information,” a new edition of a very comprehensive and 
valuable cyclopaedia of household lore. From Charles A. Bates, “ Recitations for 
Christmas,” selected and arranged by Margaret Holmes. From C. W. Bardeen, 
“ Thirteen Stories of the Far West,” by Forbes Heermans, a number of tales 
not without a certain vigor and humor, but essentially coarse in flavor and too 
obviously modelled on Bret Harte. From D. C. Heath & Co., “A German 
Grammar for Schools and Colleges,” by Edward S. Joynes, based on the public- 
school German grammar of A. L. Meissner ; and “ Italian Grammar,” by C. H. 
Grandgent, tutor of modern languages in Harvard University: two excellent 
text-books. From the Riverside Press, “ Administrative Reform as an Issue in 
the Next Presidential Canvass,” a thoughtful and readable little pamphlet by 
General C. C. Andrews. From, Fords, Howard & Hulbert, “ Norway Nights and 
Russian Days,” by S. M. Henry Davis. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


717 


OUEREOT NOTES. 


I T has been demonstrated by the scientists, as well as by practical experience in 
baking, that pure carbonic acid gas is produced in the dough, and light, spongy, 
sweet, and wholesome bread is made more readily by the use of the Royal Baking 
Powder than with yeast or with any other leavening agent. The action of the 
baking powder is mechanical entirely, and causes no chemical change in the flour. 
The water used in mixing the loaf causes the cream of tartar and soda of the 
baking powder to unite, their dissolution at once begins, the product being pure 
carbonic acid gas. Thus the leavening gas is obtained by the decomposition or 
destruction of the leavening agent itself, instead of at the expense of the con- 
stituents of the flour. The baking powder, being difiused throughout the mass, 
so that a suitable portion of it will act upon every particle of the flour, as the 
water reaches it produces the little volumes of air which, being entangled and 
held from escape by the paste, form the tiny cells which distend the dough, and 
this takes place so nearly at the same time in every part of the mass that the 
whole is raised and made as light as a sponge. A further leavening gas is given ofi* 
from the completed dissolution of the baking powder under the heat of baking, 
and this being exerted after the crust of the loaf has been hardened by the first 
heat of the oven acts to further divide the air-cells already formed, and to texture 
their walls into that peculiarly flaky sponginess which is the perfection of vesicu- 
lation, and makes the most beautiful and delicious bread. 

Thus the Royal Baking Powder most perfectly vesiculates the dough by me- 
chanical means, and entirely without fermentation. It ,fills the loaf with the 
finest air-cells, making it superlatively light and spongy, and in no way affects 
or changes the constituents of the flour. There is no destruction of the gluten, 
or sugar, but all those elements are preserved which were intended by nature, 
when combined in our bread, to make it literally the staff* of life.” 

Of far greatest importance, however, is the superior wholesomeness of bread 
made from Royal Baking Powder, arising from the superlative lightness and 
tenderness which permit its more ready and perfect assimilation, from its absolute 
fi’eedom from acidity, and the retention of all the nutritive elements of the flour. 
It is because of the possession of these qualities also that bread, biscuit, and cake 
raised by the Royal Baking Powder may be eaten when hot without inconveni- 
ence by persons of the most delicate digestive organs. The hot roll, muffin, or 
griddle- cake raised by it are as wholesome and digestible as warm soup, meat, or 
any other food. 

The assured absolute purity of the Royal Baking Powder adds to its value a 
merit found by the United States Government chemists in their tests to be pos- 
sessed by no other leavening agent. All other baking powders or bread prepara- 
tions Contain either lime or alum, which they carry into the food to the injury 
of the alimentary organs. 

The need of a weekly periodical in this country similar in general style to 
the Notes and Queries” which forms such a useful companion for the student 
and the literary man in Great Britain has long been felt, and it is hoped that 
Yol. XLI. — 46 


718 


CURRENT NOTES, 


many readers will feel interested in the announcement that such a periodical has 
been projected in Philadelphia. The title is American Notes and Queries,” and 
the editors Messrs. William S. Walsh and Henry C. Walsh. The first number 
will be out on Saturday, May 6, 1888. The contents will consist of articles on 
quaint, out-of-the-way, and curious subjects, and of queries and their answers. 
Queries on all questions of general literary and historical interest — folk-lore, 
the origin of proverbs, familiar sayings, popular customs, quotations, etc., the 
authorship of books, pamphlets, poems, essays, or stories, the meaning of recon- 
dite allusions, etc., etc. — are invited from all quarters, and will be answered by 
editors or contributors. Eoom will be allowed for the discussion of moot ques- 
tions, and it is hoped that the periodical may thus become a valuable medium 
for intercommunication between literary men and specialists. A feature which 
will undoubtedly add to the interest of the publication will be a series of two 
hundred and fifty prize questions, for the best, fullest, and completest answers to 
which prizes amounting to one thousand dollars in cash will be distributed as 
follows : 

Five hundred dollars to the best. 

Two hundred and fifty dollars to the second best. 

One hundred and twenty-five dollars to the third best. 

Seventy-five dollars to the fourth best. 

Fifty dollars to the fifth best. 

The subscription price will be $3.00 per annum, 10 cents per single number. 
Address ‘‘American Notes and Queries,” 619 Walnut Street, Philadelphia. 

Onie of the most remarkable cures of that distressing infirmity — stammering — 
is that of Mr. Edwin S. Johnston, of Philadelphia, who about five years ago 
had the greatest difficulty to express himself in the simplest way, and was almost 
unable to prosecute ordinary business. Eecovering the use of speech, which had 
almost deserted him, Mr. Johnston has devoted himself to the assistance of others 
afflicted in this way, and has been successful in effecting many cures as remarka- 
ble as was his own. Prominent citizens of Philadelphia, notably Mr. John Wan- 
amaker, Mr. George W. Childs, Dr. H. C. Wood, Mr. Hamilton Disston, and many 
others, including the writer of this, have known of the case of Mr. Johnston and 
are willing to testify to the value of the methods employed by him. Mr. Johnston 
will be glad, we are sure, to furnish any information desired regarding his treat- 
ment, and to give all the necessary testimonials confirming the- effectiveness of 
his method. 

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” an old English proverb, is one of many 
adages which enforce the advisability of going the whole hog when you have 
once started. Thus, analogous expressions in English are “ As good be hanged 
for a sheep as for a lamb,” “ Neck or nothing, for the king loves no cripple,” 
“ Make a spoon or spoil a horn,” and “ Over shoes, over boots,” in Scotch 
“Ne’er go to the deil wi’ a dish clout in your hands,” in German “ It is all the 
same whether one has both legs in the stocks or one” {Mit heiden Bdnen im Stock, 
Oder mit Emem, ist gleichviel), in Italian “ It is the first shower that wets” [La 
primiera pioggia I quel che bagna), and in French “ There is nothing like being 
bespattered for making one defy the slough” [II n^est que d^Hre erotic pour 
affronter le hourbier). When Madame de Cornuel remonstrated with a court lady 
on certain improprieties of conduct, the latter exclaimed, “ Oh, do let me enjoy 
the benefit of my bad reputation I” 


LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


EVERYTHING FOR THE LAWN. 

The ** HENDERSON” Lawn Grass Seed 

is a new mixture of choice grasses, which gives to 
Lawns made with it that deep rich-green effect so much 
admired in English Lawns. One quart will sow 300 
square feet; for an acre, 5 bushels are required. Cir- 
cular on Formation and Renovation of Lawns 
free with every order. JHrice : 25 cents per qt. ; 

$ 1.50 per peek / $5.00 per bushel, (If by mail, 
add 10 cents to qt. price.) 

The “HENDERSON” New Hand Lawn- 

M0W6P most effective and easiest-running 

' Mower ever made. If necessary, it will cut 

smoothly grass 8 inches high. Any machine that fails 
to give entire satisfaction can be returned. Prices: 

1.2-ineh (cuts swath that width), A9.00 each; 

14-inch , $ 10,25 each; lO^inch, $11.50 each; 

18-inch. 12.50 each ; 20-inch, $18.75 each, 

HENDERSON’S Lawn Enricher A clean and convenient dressing, which never fails in inducing a 

101101, deep-green hue to the Lawn. A lo-pound package will 

cover 300 square feet. Prices: 5-lh. package, 30 cents; 10-lb, package, 50 cents; 25-lb. bag, 
$1,00; 50-lb. bag, $.200; 100-lb. bag, $4.00, 

Lawn and Garden Rollers of all sizes. Prices, from $7,25 to $ 22.00 each. 

Remittances for any of the above should be sent us by Bank Draft, Money Order, or Registered Letter. 

Our circular of EVERYTHING FOR THE LAWN,’* including «uch essentials as Lawn Grass Seed, 
Lawn Mowers, Lawn Enricher, Vases, Rollers, Lawn Sprinklers, Tools, etc., mailed free to any address. 

Our Manual of “EVERYTHING FOR THE GARDEN” is this season the grandest ever issued, con- 
taining three colored plates and superb illustrations of everything that is new, us^ul, and rare in Seeds 
and Plants, with plain directions of ** How to grow them,” by Peter Henderson. This Manual, which is a 
book of 140 pages, we mail to any address on receipt of 25 cents (in stamps). 

Peter Henderson & Co., 

35 AND 37 CORTLANDT STREET, NEW YORK. 



MARION HARLAND. 


MARION HARLAND, the celebrated authoress so highly 
esteemed by the women of America, on pages 103 and 445 of 
her popular work, ''Eve's Daughters ; or, Common Sense for 
Maid, Wife, and Mother',' says : 

“ For the aching back — should it be slow in recovering its 
normal strength — an Allcock’s Porous Plaster is an excellent 
comforter, combining the sensation of the sustained pressure of 
a strong warm hand with certain tonic qualities developed in the 
wearing. It should be kept over the seat of the uneasiness for 
several days, — in obstinate cases, for perhaps a fortnight. 

“ For pain in the back wear an Allcock’s Porous Plaster 
constantly, renewing as it wears off. This is an invaluable sup- 
port when the weight on the small of the back becomes heavy 
and the aching incessant.” 


*5 


LIPPINCOTT'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 



It goes right into your kitchen, laundry 
and house-cleaning departments, and takes 
the drudgery out of all work the aim of 
which is cleanliness. Pearline is the 
greatest known detergent. Economical, 
saves time, clothes and paint, in fact it 
is the 19th Century means of having 
things perfectly clean with reduced 
labor. Millions use it. Millions more 
will. Beware of peddled imitations. james pyle, New York. 


THE LATEST POPULAR NOVELS. 

ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 

By Rosa Nouchette Carey, author of “ Esther,” ** Uncle Max,” ** Not Like Other Girls,’’ etc. 
i6mo. Half coth. 50 cents. Paper cover. 25 cents. No. 83 of Lippincott's Series of 
Select Novels. 

“ Miss Carey's novels may be compared to a tranquil back-water out of the main current of the turbid steam 
of modern fiction. The graces and charities of domestic life are treated by her with never-failing sympathy and 
refinement ." — London Athenieutn. 

MARVEL. 

A Novel. By ‘‘The Duchess,” author of “The Duchess,” “Molly Bawn,” “Phyllis,” etc. 
i6mo. Half cloth. 50 cents. Paper cover. 25 cents. No. 82 of Lippincotfs Series of 
Select Novels. 

“ The characteristics that have won for this writer so large an audience are to be found here in ample plenty, 
and the boak will have no less attraction to them than has its long line of predecessors from the same prolific 
source. ' ' — Boston Gnxette. 

RICHARjy CABLE, THE LIQHTSHIRMAN. 

By S. Baring-Gould, author of “Court Royal,” “The Gaverocks,” etc. i6mo. Half cloth. 
50 cents. Paper cover. 25 cents. No. 81 of Lippincotfs Series of Select Novels. 

“Another of the Rev. S. Baring-Gould's thrilling, touching, entertaining, and inspiring stories. The author 
has a remarkable faculty for acknowledging all the weaknesses of human nature, while leaving you after all with a 
strong impression of its nobleness ." — New York Critic. 

THE GAVEROCKS. 

A Tale of the Cornish Coast. By S. Baring- Gould, author of “ Court Royal,” etc. i6mo. 
Half cloth. 50 cents. Paper cover. 25 cents. No. 80 of Lippincotfs Series of Select Novels, 
f “One of the most interesting works of fiction which have appeared in the Lippincott Series ." — Harrisburg 
Telegraph. 

If not obtainable at your Booksellers’, send direct to the Publishers, who will forward 
the books, post-paid, on receipt of the price. 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 

26 


LIPPINCOTT S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 



ELKINTO 


GOLOIIED SILKS 


James McCreezy & Co. 


PALM 

A true and perfect Soap for Babies, 
Children or Persons of Delicate Skin. 

A frica— FIVE thousand miles 

from Philadelphia grows the stately 
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nature for burns, scalds or bruises. 

We buy the best of this oil and make our 
PALM TOILET SOAP entirely of it. When 
the Soap is made it contains many of the 
healing properties of the oil. 

For Persons of Delicate Skin and Children, 
some of our friends say it is the best Toilet 
Soap in the world. Price S1.25 per dozen. 


will make on Monday a general exhibit 
of plain Dress Silks, in which the latest 
and best products of the liooms of the 
World will be represented. Their as- 
sortments contain a large variety of the 
Oriental and Antique Classic Tints in 
both Solid and Glace effects, which are 
now receiving such marked approval in 
Paris. 

An examination is cordially invited. 


mma m smiasnsEi, 


532 St. John St., Philadelphia, Penna. 


New Vork. 


The 


Latest 


Etchings. 

“THE CAST 

SHOE.” 
By MacBeth. 

“A RAINY DAY.” 
By MacBeth. 

“THE PETS.” By Swinstead. 

And many others. On exhibition, the fine Bronze 
Group by John Rogers (one-third life size), 

“ICHABOD CRANE AND THE HEADLESS 
HORSEMAN.” 

“THE LAST RAY,” 

the exquisite Etching by Paul Rajon, after Jules Breton, 
has just been received, and is undoubtedly the finest yet 
produced ; 250 impressions only, all on Parchment and 
signed by Jules Breton and Paul Rajon. 

Other ETCHINGS, ENGRAVINGS, PAINTINGS, 
MIRRORS. 

The finest PICTURE FRAMES, CARD AND 
CABINET FRAMES. 


JAMES S. EARLE & SONS, 

816 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 



THE 

UTEST SOCIETT NOTE FAFER8 

ARE THE EGYPTIAN PAPYRUS (HAND-MADE), 
ROMANESQUE, AND NEW YORK LINEN. 

These papers are of the very latest 
and finest texture. Superior in every 
particular. Each bears a distinctive in- 
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desire something new and uncommon, 
ask your stationer for these papers, or 
enclose a two-cent postage stamp for 
samples. 

HAED Si FAESONS, Manufacturers, 

156 William Street, New York. 


[ N OF FI CE BUILDINGS, 

i with U. S. Mail Chutes, (pat’d), 
I and the U. S. free collection ser- 
H rice, tenants mail letters without 
M going down stairs. Write for par- 
ticulars, The Cutler Mfg, Co,, 
Rochester, N,Y,, Sole Makers.' 

Builders, Cabinet-Makers, and Metal 
Workers, without Steam-power, by using out- 
fits of BARNES’S PATENT FOOT- 
POWER MACHINERY, can bid lower and 
save more money from their jobs , 
than by any other means for doing' 
their work. Also for industrial train- « 
ing in schools or homes. With them 
practical journeymen's trades can 
he acquired. Catalogue free. 

Address W. T. & JOHN BABNES CO., 

No. S93 Buhy Street, Boelford, 111. 



27 


LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISED 


J. B. Lippincott Company’s 

EXTRA QUALITY STEEL PENS. 


OUK BEST-SELLING NTJMBEBS. 


68 66 73 50 52 51 72 60 67 

IPOE. S^XjE by ^XjXj STJLTI03>T"BBS. 


Price, 75 Cents Per Gross. 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 

PHILADELPHIA. 


OUT OF 
PAPER? 

Mail rates, i6 cents per lb. Express often 
cheaper. 

— WB MAKE A SPECIALTY OF — 

WEDDING AND VISITING 
CARDS, STAMPING, ETC. 

SEND FOR SAMPLES. 


ASK yOtJB 


STATIONER 


Boston Linen, 

Boston Bond, 

FOB THE Bnnker Hill Linen, 

FINE PAPERS AND ENVELOPES. 

If he does not keep them, send us 3 two-cent stamps for samples of 
these and others, representing more than 

VARIETIES 

B B B WHICH WE SELL 

£|JU BY THE POUND 

FROM 15 CENTS VPWARRS, 

Samuel Ward Company (Incorporated), 

184 DEVONSHIRE STREET, BOSTON. 


DYSPEPSIA 


IS NOT A BLOOD DISEASE, and. CANNOT be cured 
by the so-called blood purifiers, but is caused most com- 


dyspepsia results, bringing 1 

appetite, the faint, gnawing feeling, low spirits, and all 


the symptoms dyspeptics know so well. ^ R* 

n',f,gBF,S.P.51?.4SS.5LYf.Kffl||TI-D 

Americaneverknownacaseof failure. It con- * “ ■■ 'vm Vi csaia a ■ ■ a 

tains no opium or mercury. We guarantee every case, and will return the money where we fail , fiend 
us your address and we will refer won to somebody in your neighborhood who knows all about Anfl-Dys- 
peptine, or if immediate relief is desired, send $1.00 for one pkge. PRIVATE FORMULA CO.. Lebanon, Ol 


rrj^ic:Ei 


l> 

i-q 

1 = 


H 

n 

■s 


' OUTFIT 

OnT^' , ybu H E AR . F R OM ;U S 

C.AyA Lb'.G UE.& / MAliHE □’ ■ * F R’fe E 

DRAUGHTSMEN'S^ HV - ’ p, 

63.5 • ARdri.-ST. PHILADELPHIA 



!Dn SAMPIJS^ BOOE8, CIHOU- 
lUU LAltS, LETTERS and PAPERS 

FREE I 


from firms all over the world if you 
send 20 cents to have your name In 
American Directory. Copy aent you 
with name inserted. Always address 
American Directory Co., Buffalo, N. Y. 

Vmwom Hnx, Va. . Pm. ^jlSSS. 

Oent«—l hava alrea<W receired mow than 
eels of mail, many NEWSPAPERS, ®t«.,forwhl^ I 
had often paid 20 eta. each before. I^Tiseer^b^ 
to have their nama inaerted atonoe. 1 know from axpan- 
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LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER, 




Unprecedentedly Low Death Rate, 

PROVIDENT 

LIFE END'TRUST COMPANY 

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MANUFACTURERS UNDER 

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WANTED 

EVERYWHERE 


Send for new Illus- 
trated Catalogue and 
References. 


Duplex Steam Heater Co. 

No. 10 Barclay St., New York. 


ADTAXCED MB'THOD 

OF 

BOOK-KEEPING. 


THE SEVEN-ACCOUNT SYSTEM. 



Condensed Treatise, x2o pages, zo x 14. 
Price, $1.00. 


BLANK BOOKS, 

In Sets, from $5.00 to $100.00. 

BUSINBSS COLLBGB. 

Life Scholarship, $50.00. 

THE SEVEN -ACCOUNT SYSTEM. 

19 N. Clark, Chicago. 

Mention this magazine. 

Paper Flowers. 

The best 25-cent Paper Flower Outfit Book of Instrue- 
tions, over sixty samples, imported paper. Samples of 
flowers made up. Patterns and materi^ for making one 
dozen flowers mailed on receipt of 25 cts. With this 
outfit a person can soon learn the art of making paper 
flowers. 25 full-size sheets best imported tissue-paper for 
50 cts. No two same shade. 


MADISON AKT €0., Madison, Conn. 



They do not interfere with Window Draperies 
)r Decorations and are so arran^'ed that light 
and ventilation can be admitted from any part 
of the window; Do not rattle; Are easily oper- 
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Send for catalogue (mention this paper), or call 
on the Manufacturers at their office, 

EDWIN LOUDERBACK & CO., 

-Sba.3 S- X’lftla. Btroet, 

PHILADELPHIA, PA. 

ESTABLISHED, 1865. 

A-lsoY enetianBlinds, W ireScreens jEtc. 


29 


LIPPlNCOrrS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVkRllhkR, 


Mason & Hamlin 


ORGANS. 


The Cabinet Organ was Introduced by Mason 
& Hamlin In 1861. Mason & Hamlin Organs 
have always maintained their supremacy over 
all others Jhavlng received Highest Honors at 
all Great World’s Exhibitions since 1867. 


SUPPLIED TO 


H. M. Queen Victokia, 
The Empress Eugenie, 
The Royal Navy, 

S.S. “Etruria” and 
“ Umbria,” 

Sib Arthur Sullivan, 
Db. Staineb, 

Theo. Thomas, 

Dudley Buck, 

AND MANY 


Italo Campanini, 
Charles Gounod, 
Geo. W. Morgan, 
Geo. W. Warren, 
S. P. Warren, 
Saint Saens, 

St. James’s Hall, 
X. Scharwenka, 
P. S. Gilmore, 
others. 



PIANOS, 

WITH THEIR 

Improved Method of Stringing, 


PATENTED JULY 24, 1883. 

ARB CHARACTERIZED BY 

Brightest, Purest Tones, 
Greatest Durability, 


THE LISZT ORGAN. 
(with pipe top.) 


FASHIONABLE MODELS; 
Liszt Organ, Queen's Model, 

^olian Harp Organ (at $105) 
Yacht Organ ($22 and 


up.) 


Mason & Hamlin do not hesitate to make the 
extraordinary claim for their pianos, that they 
are superior to all others. They recognize the 
high excellence achieved by other leading 
makers in the art of piano-building, but still 
claim superiority. This they attribute solely 
to the remarkable improvement introduced by 
them in the year 1882, and now known as the 
“MASON HAMLIN PIANO-STRINGER,” 
by the use of which is secured the greatest 
possible purity and refinement of tone, together with 
greatly increased capacity for standing in tune, and other 
important advantages. 

A circular, containing testimonials from three hundredL 
purchasers, musicians, and tuners, sent, together with 
descriptive catalogue, to any applicant. 


Pianos and Organs sold for cash or easy payments ; also 
rented. 


Mason & Hamlin Organ & Piano Co.. 


BOSTON. NEW YORK. CHICAGO. 


is a concentrated liquid extract of Malt 
and Hops. It is considered by emi- 
nent physicians to be far superior to 
any imported article. The “ Best 
Tonic " is a sure cure for Dyspepsia; 
it will tone and strengthen the system, 
aid digestion, and is an excellent substitute for solid food. Of priceless value to nursing 
mothers. Sold by all druggists. Send for circulars to 

rH. BHSX BRBWllSO COMrAB^Y, Milwaukee, Wis. 




L»® 




NATURE’S NERVE TONIC. 


TaADA MARK Ril. Nature’s Specific for Bright’s Disease. 

A Powerful Nervous Tonic, it is a wonderful restorative in Nervous exhaustion, neuralgia, and 
affections generally of the nervous system. Both a remedy for and preventive of Mental and Physical 
Exhaustion from Overwork or Bright’s Disease, Gout, Rheumatic Gout, Rheumatism, Acid Dyspepsia, 
Malarial Poisoning, <fec. It is par excellence a remedy. Endorsed by medical men of the highest distinction. 

Water in Cases of one dozen half gallon bottles, $5 per case, at the Spring8« 

THOS. F. GOODE, Proprietor, BUFFALO LITHIA SPRINGS, VA. 


CURE Tnh DEAF 



Peck’s Patent Improved Cush- 
ioned Ear Drums Perfectly lie- 
store the Hearing, whether deaf- 
ness is caused by colds, fevers 9^1^* 
juries to the natural dnims. Invisible, 
comfortable, always in position. Mu- 
sic, conversation, vrhiimers n^rd^di^ 
tinctly. Writete F. HISOC^, 8»3 
Broadway, cor. 14th St. New York, for 
illustrated book of proofs r KlLiii. 



FACIAL BLEMISHES. 

Largest Establishment in the world for 
their treatment. Facial Development, 
Hair and Scalp, Superfluous Hair, Birth 
Marks, Moles, Warts, Moth, Freckles, 
Wrinkles, Red Nose, Acne, Pimples, 
Bl’k Heads, Scars, Pitting, etc., and 
their treatment. Send loc. for sopage 
book treating on 25 Skin Imperfections. 
Dr. JOHN H. WOODBUEY, 37 N. Pearl St., 


Albany, N. Y. Established 1870 . Inventor 
of Facial Appliances, Springs, etc. Six Parlors. 


30 




LIPPINCOTT'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


ESTABLISHED 1801 . 


BARRY’S 

TRICOPHEROUS 



FOR THE HAIR 


n^lie Oldest; O/iid t;lie Sest« 


Fastens the hair where it has a tendency to fall out, 
renews its growth where the fibres have disappeared, pre- 
serves its color in spite of age, sickness, and sorrow, and 
makes it (however harsh) as flexible and glossy as silk. 



For The Nervous 
The Debilitated 
The Aged 



I URHS Nervous Prostration, Nervous Head- 
' ache, Neuralgia, NervousWeakness, 
^Stomach and Liver Diseases, and all 
affections of the Kidneys. 

AS A NERVE TONIC, It Strengthens 
and Quiets the Nerves. 


AS AN ALTERATIVE, It Purifies and 
Enriches the Blood. 


AS A LAXATIVE, It acts mildly, but 
Burely, on the Bowels. 

AS A DIURETIC, It Regulates the Kid- 
neys and Cures their Diseases. 

Recommended by professional and business men. 

Price $1,00. Sold by druggists. Send for circulars. 

WELLS, RICHARDSON & CO,, Proprietors, 

BURLINGTON. VT. 


31 




BES T FOR LADIES^ U SE, 

An oil dressing. Preserves leather. 

Natural finish, not varnish. Economical. Allow no 
substituting. For sale everywhere. 

Button & Ottley, M'f'rs, 71 Barclay St., New York. 


MaRTGAGE COMPANY. 


Capital (Subscribed 
Capital Paid in (Cash) 


$ 2 , 000,000 

1 , 000,000 


6 PER CENT. DEBENTURES and GUARAN- 
TEED FARM MORTGAGES. Interest payable 
semi-annually at any of our offices. Our mortgages 
are upon improved FARMS ONLY. We loan no 
money on the unduly stimulated property 
of the towns and cities. Also 

MUNICIPAL BONDS. 

OFFICES. 


NEW YORK, 208 B'way. 
BOSTON, 1 17 Devonshire 
Street. 


SEND FOR PAMPHLET. 


PHILADA., Cor. Chest- 
nut and 4th Streets. 
LONDON, England. 


J EWELLERS* SAWDUST, for cleansing jewelry 
and keeping gems always bright. Send 12cts. for 
box. J. H. Johnston, 150 Bowery. Full instructions. 


Warren'S, 



Thread, Cloth, and Satin Covered. • 


DRESS iSTATS 

Finished in three Styles. 
For sale everywhere. 


lOZZONI’S 


n* 

■ H MEDICATED 

U COMPLEXION 

1®®®^ Imparts a brilliant transparency to the skin. Re- 
H moves all pimples, freckles and discolorations. For 
HB sale by all first-class druggists, or mailed for 50 cts. 

lOWDER. “■ 


lO WDER. 

SEDGWICK STEEL WIRE FENCE. 



The best Farm, Garden, Poultry Yard, Lawn, 
School Lot, Park and Cemetery Fences and Gates. 
Perfect Automatic Gate. Cheapest and Neatest 
Iron Fences. Iron and wire Summer Houses, Lawn 
Furniture, and other wire work. Best Wire Stretch- 
er and Plier. Ask dealers in hardware, or address. 

SEDGWICK BROS., Richmond, Indi 

EDWARD SUTTON, Eastern Aeent, 

300 MARKET ST-. PHILADELPHIA, PA. 


LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


Standard Novels and Works of R€f€r-6ne« 

PUBLISHED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 


SIR WALTER SCOTrS WAVERLEY NOVELS. 

New Library Edition. Complete in 25 octavo volumes. Extra cloth. $1.75 per vol. Insets. 
Cloth, gilt top, ^43.75. Half morocco, $56.25. Half calf, gilt, marbled edges, $75.00. 
Three-quarters calf, $87.50. Special Edition., with 135 extra steel plates (in all, 185 plates). 
Sets. In cloth boards, 25 vols., $62.50. Three-quarters calf, extra, $112.50. 

We are glad to say of it that it is the most desirable set that we have ever seen. It is tastefully bound 
in coat of dark blue and elegantly lettered in gold, with gilt top. The type is large and beautiful, and is set 
in a margin at least an inch in width of clear white paper. Each volume contains a fine full-page steel en- 
graving, either a portrait or copy of some famous picture illustrating the story, and a steel vignette, The 
edition needs but to be seen to be coveted by every lover of beautiful books ,** — Boston Advertiser. 

DICKENS’S WORKS. 

The Standard Edition of the Works of Charles Dickens. Profusely Illustrated with Steel 
Plates. 8vo. Complete sets. 30 vols. Cloth, $60.00. Handy Edition. Complete in 30 
vols. i6mo. Half cloth, 50 cents per vol. Half morocco, $1.00 per vol. 

The clear type, fine thin paper, with uncut edges and neat binding, make these little books {Handy 
Edition') as elegant as one need wish, while the low price will enable all lovers of Dickens to possess, at a 
very small outlay, a good edition of his works. 

THACKERAY’S WORKS. 

Library Edition, Illustrations by the author, Richard Doyle, and Frederick Walker. 
Complete in 24 vols. 8vo. Price per set, English cloth, gilt, $48.00. Popular Edition. 
Complete in 26 vols. i2mo. Profusely Illustrated. Per set, cloth extra, $32.50. 
Standard Edition, Complete in 26 vols. Profusely Illustrated with Steel Plates and 
Wood Engravings. Large 8vo, cloth, gilt top. English cloth style. $3.00 per vol. 
Handy Edition, Complete in 27 vols. i6mo. Half cloth, 50 cents per vol. Half 
morocco, $1.00 per vol. 

** Lovely little books, with refined-looking pages, rough edges all round, and extremely tasteful binding, 
half linen and half paper, is this Handy Edition.” — Literary IVorld. 



Valuabk Works of Roforotic^. 

LIPPINCOTT’S PRONOUNCING BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY. 

Containing Complete and Concise Biographical Sketches of the Eminent Persons of all 
Ages and Countries. New Edition. Thoroughly Revised and Enlarged. By J. Thomas, 
M.D., LL.D. I vol. Imperial 8vo. Sheep, $12.00. 

ALLIBONE’S CRITICAL DICTIONARY OF AUTHORS. 

A Dictionary of English Literature and British and American Authors, Living and Deceased. 
By S. Austin Allibone, LL.D. 3 vols. Imperial 8vo. Extra cloth, $22.50. Sheep, $25.50. 

LIPPINCOTT’S PRONOUNCING GAZETTEER OF THE WORLD. 

A Complete Geographical Dictionary. New Edition of 1880. Thoroughly Revised. Con- 
taining Supplementary Tables, with the most recent Census Returns. Royal 8vo. Sheep, $I 2.00. 

WORCESTER’S DICTIONARY. 

Standard Royal Quarto Dictionary of the English Language. Unabridged. Profusely Il- 
lustrated with Wood-cuts and Full-page Plates. Edition of 1887. Enlarged by the addi- 
tion of a New Pronouncing Biographical Dictionary of nearly 12,000 personages, and a New 
Pronouncing Gazetteer of the World, noting and locating over 20,000 places. Containing 
also over 12,500 New Words, recently added, together with a Table of 5000 Words in Gen- 
eral Use, with their Synonymes. Sheep, marbled edges, $10.00. Half Turkey morocco, 
marbled edges, $12.00. Half Russia, marbled edges, $12.00. 

CHAMBERS’S ENCYCLOPyEDIA. 

A Dictionary of Universal Knowledge for the People. Revised Poptilar Edition and House- 
hold Edition, Revised, with numerous Full-page Illustrations, Wood Engravings, and Maps. 
In 10 vols,, royal octavo. Bound in various styles, at prices ranging from $15.00 to $40.00. 

For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, on receipt of the price, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

715 «n€i 717 Market St., IPHllaaelpHieu 


32 


Manufactured by TARRANT A CO,y New York 




to $8 a Day. Samples worth ^1.50 J-rbh. 
Lines not under the Horse’s feet. Write BEEW- 
STEB SAFETY EEIN HOLDEE CO.. Holly, Mich. 


SENT 


BY 


MAIL 


FOR 


12(WEFREMEpiEs| 

pAiviuiEs "^Travelers! 

WITH FULlWtRUCTIONS 

® FILLS A WANT 
LONG WISHED FOR 

f ^RICE&CO. 

• AUBURN,N.y. 


TOKOLOGY! 

The most popular 

99,000 SOLD 


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37 


LTPPINCOTT'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


There is no sound! No apparition! And yet, we wake! We 
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in the chest ! What is it ? A R nPTTIVr A J 

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Asthma ! 


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38 








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